Samantha took slow steps toward the house and managed to shorten them even further the closer she got. In her mind, she worked at the issue like a complicated calculus problem. She found solace in number games, as she always had. Logic and reason had always been her way of looking at the world, but of late, they had failed her. She found herself wanting something more, something of the irrational and emotional that Jerome had more faith in.
Finally, she stood before the door. Samantha had heard that Jerome had moved back in with his mother after Samantha had texted him goodbye. Even some of her closest friends couldn't believe she had opted to text the marine goodbye. She told them she had done it to make it easier for Jerome, but all these years later, she knew the truth. She had done it to make it easier for her. She couldn't have looked into Jerome's eyes and gone through with it. Those eyes would have told her how wrong she was to leave, and those eyes would have been right, not just for Jerome, but for Samantha as well. Friends who stayed in the area had told her how broken he had been and how he had moved back with his mother to care for her, as her own health was on the decline. Samantha found just enough strength to raise her finger and press the doorbell button. She braced herself for the attack that was sure to follow. Jerome's mother didn't like Samantha, never had and what Samantha had done to her only child was not apt to increase any feeling other than hatred.
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http://www.fredericknewspost.com/arts_and_entertainment/arts_and_entertainment_topics/music/local-composer-gary-schwartz-s-pieces-will-be-performed-at/article_fa711c69-8b3e-588d-b877-1f2619f00339.html
At the link, you will find an article that I co-wrote for the Frederick News Post. Please read and share, this will be a wonderful event! Routine. Up in the morning early before my mother gets up. Quiet time. Time to reflect and think about how I got here.
Not that it changes anything. I still hate my life, and I am sorry for that. I know others have it worse, no job, homeless, scrounging for food and somehow they can find things to smile about. I grab the house leg, as I know it, the one that I year in place of my left leg when I am in the house and when I go to work. Today is Saturday, so it will just be my house leg today. I'll run in about an hour and then I'll change it for my blade leg. Leg changing became a feature three years previously when a flash and explosion took my left leg and ate up my insides with shrapnel. I came home broken and battered. I was supposed to be depressed and suicidal, but my depression didn't happen then. I could still find my smile in those days. She was my smile and now she's my depression. These thoughts never helped, never changed my life, but they were my routine and I hadn't been able to ditch them. Now it was time for the leg change, time to run, time to try to get rid of the demons that gnawed at my soul and heart. "You going for your run, Jerome?" "Yeah, Mom, I'll probably be a while, going to take a long one today." "Ok, be careful. You have your phone right?" "Yep got it in my pouch." "Good, you can call if you need a ride home or anything?" "You bet." I smiled, as I left her. The smile was fake and forced, but like most people, you could fool them with a few muscle twitches and enough time. After a few months, everyone assumes you are better. Most of them, no matter how good their intentions are, actually get angry when you still feel bad. I had learned to fake it to save everyone from any upset, but still the pain ate away like a cancer, silent and deadly. Samantha stopped the car a block away from the simple ranch home on Elm Way. She took in a breath and held it until forced to release it back into the ether. This house had been a familiar haunt of hers a mere five years ago, but now it stood before her like the gates of Hades. Nerves gnawed at Samantha's insides like rats on wood, trying to find a way inside, to the good stuff. She focused on breathing again. Would Jerome be there? Or would it just be his mother, judgmental and questioning?
In the end, it didn't matter too much either way. She had no idea what either choice would bring, and her confidence was draining out of her fast. If she was to follow through on this intention, she needed to act fast. In the five years since she had left Jerome, Samantha had turned to booze, empty sex and relationships that kept a roof over her head and food in her belly, but offered little in the way of feeding her soul. How foolish she had been at thirty to walk out on love like that between her and Jerome. A part of her deep down had known it all along, but she had only admitted it to herself in the last two years. When that happened, Samantha had begged her lover, a man twenty years her senior who paraded her around like his prize possession, for money to see a psychiatrist. "Honey pie, what you need is a baby," he had offered. "Why not? I have good genes to pass on to my heir." The idea of children had always been repugnant to Samantha, and it had ended more than one relationship she had been in since she left Jerome. Here, she used his desire to his advantage. "You might be right, George, you might be, but I need to work out a few things from my past first if I am going to make a good mother to our child." The old man had beamed at her seeming change of heart on the subject of children. He had always wanted a younger woman who looked good and would be fertile to make a son with, that's what had attracted him to his chestnut filly as he liked to call her. "Well then, of course! The sooner you get this worked out the better then we can move on to baby making." He had actually lifted her off the ground and that and spun her in the air a single time, all that his feeble back could handle. She had gone to therapy. At first, she didn't like it. She had doubts about going back, but slowly, as she opened up about more and more of the dark demons that had haunted her from childhood, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. In front of George, she was careful to keep the progress slower than it moved because she didn't want to make a baby with him or anyone for that matter. Eventually, the discussions had turned to her romantic life. It was here that she had the hardest time working through the past, but for the first time in her life, she had worked through something and she took pride in that. Normally, when things got tough, you could count Samantha out. She looked for the easy ride, the quick fix, but not anymore. Her therapist had made her see that things that were worth having took work. That was when she realized she had done the same with her relationship with Jerome. Now that she could be dedicated enough to see it through the tough times, would Jerome still want her? Was he still even single? She wouldn't know unless she got out of the car and went to the house. This was another tough time. When that thought dawned on her, she opened the door and stepped out into the street. It's been a bit of a rough week. Not only have I had to go to the doctor for a health issue, that still hasn't even been properly diagnosed, but I've also been battling the continued memory of my ex. I am approaching what would have been out five year anniversary and very close to having been a year since she walked out of my life. I know most of my friends and family are over the issue and clearly she was over me months ago. I recall when she said to me that it was a process. I remember being clearly puzzled then and to be honest, still am some now. For me, this isn't a process.
I have tried many different avenues to get over her, too: therapy, mediation, mindfullness, becoming involved in many different endeavors, and yet, still, I can't get over it. So what is this process? I say that rather tongue in cheek because, as I've thought on this more and more, I think there is no process really and truly. I think I've hit on an important revelation that others might be aware of, but for which, I have only become aware recently. I think the answer lies in what is at the core of a person, are they more of a person to look at the world through the lens of hope and positivity or the opposite, looking at things with a more pessimistic bent. Neither is right, neither is wrong. People, I have come to discover though fall largely into one of the two categories. It's not just my ex who I have observed in this manner, but others in my life as well. It was relatively easy for my ex, for example, to get over the breakup because even during the relationship the negative in it was always more present in her mind. And by negative, let me say that I am not talking about anything even close to violence on either end. Our negative was fighting, often over silly stuff, and doing some things that aggravated the other. Instead of sitting down, talking and respecting one another and working it out, we seemed too focused on our own feelings and saw little of the other's point. I think we probably should have waited to have those conversations after we had both cooled out a bit from whatever the initial spark was. Getting back to the point though, I think it has been easier for her precisely because she can easily focus on the negative from our relationship. I am certain she sees every detail of a fight, but finds the positive to be fuzzy. I know when I would talk to her about some cherished memory from our mutual past, she would say things like, I don't really remember that, but let us get into a fight and she could quote things from a fight 3 years earlier while those fight memories were the fuzzy ones for me. Now, as she ended the relationship, of course, we both continue in the same basic core path - she only saw the negative, and it was easy to get over it, that was her "process". Incidentally, one of the techniques that my therapist tried to use and that I have seen in self-help articles and books have suggested that very thing - try to focus on the negative from a past relationship to work through it. I did try it, but my mind it seems won't let me really do that. I know some will say it's just a question of forcing your mind to do so, but in all honesty, I have tried and had no success. In any case, I have definitely become more mindful of how my mind tends to focus on issues and how it can affect my interactions with others, especially those who seem to focus more on the negative in life. I guess there might be something to those studies that have found pessimists live longer. If you are a writer, or any creative individual for that matter, you would do well to remember that most people in the world do not care about you or your work. The big names of the world aside, your novel, poem, painting or performance is not going to attract the attention of individuals. You have to remember that for every big name in your field, there are hundreds of thousands of individuals just like you clawing and scrapping for the public's attention. It's not pretty and you'll fail 99 times out of 100, at least.
When you go looking for press or the press comes looking for you, keep that in mind and be grateful for even the smallest of mentions. Over the years, I have noticed that creative individuals have come to express and attitude more and more of entitlement, that the press should come to them or that once the press does, the article should be a full-feature, front page story or in a prime-time news slot on radio or television. 1) When dealing with the press, do not be afraid to seek them out for a story. Yes, it feels a bit weird, but how else among the sea of individuals are they ever to know about you? 2) When you do reach out, be polite, concise and convey an attitude of excitement and energy. Although you may not pay a dime for free press, you will pay via the audience your story will garner. Increased audience equals increased advertiser dollars, which keeps the press in business. Don't make that pitch boring, and keep it short, so it won't be discarded simply because it's too long to go through. 3) Followup once. Followup twice. Followup thrice. You can't followup enough. Sent a letter or email? Great, but trying calling if you haven't heard anything in a week. Being passionate about yourself and your work can often give you the break through you need. 4) Be grateful. Ok, so maybe a small piece buried in page D5 isn't what you envisioned, but it's press, right? That article can be shared among your friends and social network. Encourage those individuals to contact the paper to thank them for the piece. The next time, the press just might give you that bigger article or time slot that you dream of, and at the very list, you are building up clippings that show you are a dedicated artist in the business side of your work as well as the creative side. Keep the faith and keep up your efforts! Miranda N. Prather An insistent buzzing slowly erased the dreams of ballroom dances and Prince Charming. The vivid red and black ballroom became increasingly replaced with the washed out tones of studio apartment four. Rebecca Lowless forced open her eyes in disgust. Without her glasses she couldn’t make out the wall clock, but her body told her that it was early. She rolled to her left and focused on the bedside table. The simple red lines of her clock read 4:45 a.m. She tried to ignore the cry of the phone, but the task proved impossible. She jerked the dingy white receiver from its cradle and pressed it to the side of her face.
“What?” “Think you could be a little longer in answerin’ the phone, Becky?” All too familiar, the cheerful voice irritated Rebecca’s ears worse than the phone’s ringing. “Mother. What the hell do you want?” “Such language from such a sweet young lady,” her mother punctuated the response with a disdainful cluck of her tongue. Rebecca steadied herself by gripping the blue-flower bedspread. “Cut the bullshit Mother. Just tell me what I’m doing up at five o’fucking clock in the God-damned morning. And it better be good.” “Oh, it’s good Becky, dear. It’s about my birthday.” Rebecca listened as her mother explained the call. Her mother turned fifty next week, and she wanted a special gift from her eldest daughter. A smile spread across Rebecca’s face as she listened to the details. Nearing the mid-century mark, Mrs. David Lowless had decided that life had ceased to be an adventure for her. She explained to her oldest daughter that already she could feel old age dragging her down. She could feel the grasp of the grave, as she put it. Of course, Mrs. David Lowless couldn’t rely on Matt or Sylvia, Rebecca’s younger siblings, but Rebecca was different. “So, what do you think, Becky? Think you could give your mother this final gift?” “Sure.” r r r r r Amongst the racks of orange camouflage suits and mounted deer heads, Rebecca felt out of place. She had learned the basics of handling and firing a shotgun, an important part of every southern Mississippi kid’s training, but she hadn’t owned a gun since she left the family farm. Eventually, the kid behind the counter noticed her distress and loped over to help her. “’Scuse me, ma’am, but’s there sompthin’ I can help ya with?” She set her eyes on his scuffed, steel-toed boots, avoiding his face. “Well, see, I need a gift for my boyfriend. He likes to hunt, so I was thinking maybe a shotgun would, you know, be nice. Could you help me find a good one?” The lie was easy and believable. “I might could be able to do that ma’am. We got plenty a models to choose from, y’know. How high ya willin’ to go?” “How much does the best cost?” She ventured a glance at the kid’s face; it seemed to acknowledge that here was a woman who could please a sensible man. “Well, now, ma’am, really depends on what yer man likes to hunt.” She explained that she wasn’t sure, and he frowned a little in disappointment. In the end, she picked a Mossberg 500. An expensive gun, but the money didn’t matter to Rebecca at this point. She paid for the shotgun and a couple boxes of shells, knowing that she would only need one shell. r r r r r November second arrived, and Mrs. David Lowless turned fifty surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Sylvia, the youngest of the Lowless’ children, had planned the little affair. When Rebecca passed through the door unannounced, both Sylvia and her brother, Matt, glanced at one another, shock and unease on their faces. The glance didn’t go unnoticed by Rebecca; it only made her smile widen. She knew they worried that she would create disaster, but she had decided to give the condemned one last good time. For once, a Lowless’ family gathering was smooth not stormy. After the cake, the adults retired to the back patio reminiscing over iced tea about their shared past. The conversation ceased when the birthday girl plucked a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Ignoring the silence, she began awkwardly inhaling the smoke. Sylvia spoke first, “Mother?” Their mother continued to ignore their surprise. She focused on drawing in small breaths of the smoke and then exhaling them in a noxious puff. Sylvia turned to Matt for help. “Mother. I think what Sylvia was trying to say. . .well, Mom, why are you smoking? You don’t smoke.” “Don’t mean I can’t.” “But why now? You’re getting older. It’s time to start looking after your health. You know smoking is bad for you.” “Come on Matt. Leave Mom be, she’s entitled to a little sin after raising us three,” Rebecca said. Rebecca’s surprise defense of her mother successfully silenced Sylvia, but Matt wasn’t as easily hushed. “But Rebecca, come on, it’s not good for her. Mom, look what it did to David.” Rebecca felt her face grimace as she turned to her brother. He seemed to sense her displeasure and amended his statement. “I mean Dad. Look what it did to Dad.” Still, she puffed until nothing but the filter remained. “I’m not going to live forever. Might’s well try a few things.” She left her children and went inside to play Grandma to Matt’s children. Rebecca wished her mother happy birthday once more and left the family to finish the festivities. She had to talk to someone. r r r r r Once free of the cramped atmosphere of the party, Rebecca headed South. In the passenger seat of her jeep, lay the gift for her mother. She would need it later and wouldn’t have time to stop by her apartment to retrieve it. Just West of Biolixi, most of the Lowless’ ancestors rested in the ground. Originally, they had owned the hundred acres surrounding the burial ground. But in 1870, the family had begun to sell off plots in order to avoid the post-war destitution so common in the South. By the time David Lowless was old enough to own his own land, he had to settle in Pas Christian at another of the family’s property holdings. All that remained of the Lowless estate near Biolixi, was the graveyard. In this graveyard, David Lowless had been buried, and it was to him that Rebecca went after the party. She drove her jeep down the dirt path and parked it outside the tiny wrought-iron fence. One side of the grave yard, remained sheltered by a grove of stout oak trees; David Lowless’ headstone was near the trees. She sat in front of his grave concentrating on the moss-mottled stone. In her mind, she conjured up the last image she had of her father. The image blurred as a figure in the woods attracted her eye. Out of the woods, a tremendous man with whitening hair stepped towards her. They surveyed one another, and as their eyes met, Rebecca spoke. “Father?” “What did you come here for?” She forced her tears back, focusing on the words. “I need to talk to you.” “About what?” “Mom,” she managed. The man remained completely still; out of necessity to speak, his mouth was all that moved. “About your mother?” She had to fight hard not to run to the man and embrace him. Her mouth remained mute, though she so wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him how she hated her mother, hated the way she treated him. But she couldn’t find her mouth muscles in time. The man spoke once more. “I never knew your mother.” Then he disappeared into the woods leaving her alone with the headstones. She could no longer hold back her tears. Crying, she sat across form her father’s grave until her watch alarm beeped announcing a new hour. It was almost time. She wiped away the tears, collected her thoughts, and moved towards the parked jeep. r r r r r Back in her jeep, she headed southwest, away from Biolixi towards Pas Christian. She stopped for a bathroom where the road forked in so many possible directions. North would lead her back to her apartment. To the west lay mysteries. South would take her to Pas Christian and her expectant mother. She sat looking at the road for five minutes while she drank the convenience store soda pop she had bought. As the last of the syrupy liquid traced down her throat, she started the engine and turned South. The road to the Gulf of Mexico lead past the house of her childhood. She slowed the jeep to a crawl as she drove down the old street. All she could see through the bald cypresses garlanded with Spanish moss, were patches of white. Without thinking, she signaled a left turn and angled the jeep down the bamboo lined drive. She could feel the gravel crunch under the jeep’s tires and remembered her first “driving” lessons. Perched on her mother’s lap, she had carefully guided the battered Ford pickup down the drive. The ditch on the right side had been perilous in those days, but now it seemed a trivial threat. Rebecca knew there existed dangers deeper than drainage ditches. The miniature swing bridge across the drainage ditch still linked the driveway to the main grounds. She considered crossing the bridge, but it looked ready to collapse. She walked to the edge of the ditch and surveyed its contents. Although the ditch was dry, she still looked for any gators or snakes that might be lurking in the ditch bed. She remembered one summer when a six foot gator had remained stuck for a month after flooding. Every morning, it would greet her with a villainous hiss. From then on, she never forgot to check the ditch first. Once across the ditch, she looked at the crumbling white plantation house that had been a part of the nation’s history as well as her own. The boarded windows and sunken in roof told of long years of desertion. She wondered if anyone had lived in the old house after they had moved. Rebecca and her father had never wanted to leave, but her mother had thought she hated life on the coast. She walked behind the remains of the servant quarters looking for the old stone bench. The bench remained, but the willow that had shaded the spot for many years lay rotting on the ground. Honeysuckle still grew along the property wall, and she plucked some. The sweet sap of the honeysuckle made her feel eight years old again, wishing only that her father would turn one of the old coup houses into a playhouse as he had always promised. She spent the remaining time before seven-thirty, the hour of her errand, lost in a time warp of reflection. During their years on the coast, her father had spent more time at work than he did at home. Rebecca blamed her mother for his absence. He loved the woman and wanted nothing more than to please her. Her brother was only two when the family left the coast, so Rebecca had been her mother’s only company. Her mother would stage “tea parties” at which Rebecca and herself were the only visible guest. Still, her mother would talk to the vacant chairs as if people really sat there. When her father had the time, he would take her out of the house for adventures. In retrospect, she thought of those times with her father as her sanity time. Only once did she and her father ever cross swords. The day had been hot, close, humid; the kind of day in the South that can only mean rain. Rebecca had spent most of the day outdoors avoiding her mother. The rain didn’t immediately send her indoors, but when the storm signaled its seriousness with thunderclaps and lightning, she had no choice but to retreat indoors. In the front room, her mother slept on the sofa. Rebecca eased the door shut and tiptoed as far as the stairway before her mother’s eyes opened. “Becky! You’re just in time for tea. Beverleigh-Ann and Mary Jo are already in the parlor. Won’t you be a good girl and get the china.” Rebecca muttered, “Yes ma’am,” and headed toward the kitchen. In the parlor, her mother sat talking to the empty chairs as if each contained a vivacious presence. Rebecca set the china around the table and quickly poured tea into each cup. Slumping into the chair next to her mother, she sipped her own cup of tea. “Becky, dear. Why don’t you tell Ms. Mary Jo what you’ve learned in school this past year.” Rebecca began to recite the list of her learnings, but caught her tongue before the words escaped. “Mother! There’s no one there! There’s no one at all in this room, but you and me!” Her mother glanced worriedly at her guests and apologized for her impudent daughter. Rebecca could stand it no longer. She lifted her own china cup and flung it in the direction of Ms. Mary Jo. Bits of blue and white china exploded against the wall. She continued throwing more and more of the cups and saucers. Screaming the whole time that the people didn’t exist. She soon ran out of china and could only stare at her mother. Her mother’s mouth moved; but through the silence, Rebecca didn’t hear a word. Neither of her parents had ever raised a hand to her, but the look in her mother’s eyes threatened a dark purpose. Rebecca turned from her mother, turned from the house, and ran into the rain. She ran till her legs felt rubbery and vomited behind a shed. From what she could see, she figured she was out by the trainyard, a long way from home. She entered one of the boxcars for shelter, never intending to use it to run away. She collapsed into a deep sleep. Only the jerky lurching of the train woke her. The train was stopping, but she didn’t know where. When the train slowed enough, she jumped out of the car. The train had taken her to a small, Northern, Mississippi town. She could never remember the name of that town; it was the only detail time had stolen from her. An elderly man at the gas station that she went into made the call to her parents for her. Tears in her eyes, she ran to her father for comfort. Instead, her father refused his daughter’s embrace and turned her over his knee. Her crying grew uncontrollable and her father stopped. “David. Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her?” “Kathleen, the girl’s got to learn what’s respectable. We can’t let her get away with this kind of behavior.” “Daddy. . .I’m-m-m sorry.” She looked up to her father through her tears. He only turned to the truck and walked away. That wasn’t the only time she rebelled against her parent’s wishes, but it was the only time her father ever seemed angry at her. They returned home, and Rebecca never had another tea party with her mother. The times there hadn’t always been pleasant, but this place owned her soul. The move to Ohio had been devastating. Devastating to her, to her parent’s marriage, and to what little sense of family they’d had. Ohio hadn’t made her mother happy, even though she was the main reason they had moved. She took a moment and glanced at her watch. The late hour dismayed her. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave this place again. But she forced herself to rise and started to walk back to the jeep without a backward glance. r r r r r The drive from her old home to the deserted stretch of the Gulf Coast was over too soon for Rebecca. Not much had changed since her exodus. Robert E. Lee Elementary, Fu Ling’s China Diner, the Captain’s Cove. Places where she she’d spent her youth. Only the apartment complex being constructed on the old ruins left by Hurricane Camile seemed alien. Then, she reached the shore. With the ocean in front of her, there was nowhere left to drive. A single figure stood watching the winter waves stretch upon the sand and return to fill the ocean again. Rebecca recognized the figure by the oversized straw sombrero, the kind of hats beachcombers wear. During a visit to her grandparents in Texas, one of their little excursions had been across the border. When she was six years old, she bought that hat as a gift for her mother. She knew the sombrero had MEXICO stitched in blocky red letters and a simple yarn picture of a cactus. She eased the jeep onto the beach and killed the engine. The place was too familiar to Rebecca. On these shifting sands, she had organized her first secret club, and on one hot night, lost her virginity. Here, the bent figure of her mother seemed an anomaly. The only image that could keep her from the past. The birthday gift lay beside her on the jeep’s passenger seat. She felt revenge and even the last traces of mercy leave her. She sat staring at the whitecaps—wondering how she could have thought that this would be easy. How could she do it? How could she give this last gift to her mother? She cursed the tears coursing down her warm cheeks. “You’ve got a job to do, Becky. Are you gonna give me that gift or wallow there in that jeep, ya little bitch?” The barb found its mark. As her mother turned from the jeep back to the ocean, Rebecca raised the shotgun off the seat. A cry: “My name is Rebecca!” A shotgun report, then the sounds of advancing tide and seagulls. Got that last stubborn 50 pounds to lose? Tried pre-packaged food diets? Been eating like your ancestors? How about drinking some disgusting concoction that sees you on the toilet for hours on end? Have all of those failed miserably?
I feel your pain and have the solution, providing you, like me, have a loss of appetite that accompanies your heartbreak. Get dumped. Yes, you read that right, get yourself dumped from a meaningful relationship. I am still reeling and don't understand all the things that I did to lead to my breakup (though I admit some of the problems were mine), but it has done wonders for my weight-loss woes. First, this has to be a meaningful relationship. I had been with my ex for four years. Anything under a year and it's not going to be meaningful enough to help you lose weight. If you think you have a meaningful relationship after six weeks, you have bigger problems than needing to lose weight. So have you been in a meaningful relationship and want to lose weight? Great, get dumped. Second, now you are dumped from your meaningful relationship, you are going to feel like crap. If you don't, then the relationship wasn't meaningful and the dumped diet isn't going to help you lose weight. Now, watch the pounds drop because if you were like me in a meaningful relationship and react with a lack of appetite, this breakup is doing to zap your appetite better than any wonder drug or supplement. It won't be fun and your friends and family will get annoyed when they take you out to cheer you up and you move that $50 steak around hoping it will trick them into thinking you are eating without taking more than a bite, but the pounds will start dropping. How long can you be on this diet? Well that depends on you. It's closing in a year now, and I confess some of my appetite has returned, but most times, I cram down as much as I can to avoid the stink eye from others who wonder what the hell is wrong with me. Look for the full length book version of the dumped diet with plans on how to develop a meaningful relationship, how to get dumped and how to make the diet work for you coming soon. Keep in mind, as with all diet plans, individual results may vary. (Note: this is a tongue-in-cheek humor piece and not meant to be any actual diet plan. So if you have read this believing it is an actual diet plan, please do not try. Have a laugh, I'm not a doctor and not offering health advice, just offering you a laugh and my misery.) Miranda N. Prather Because you said, "I love you"
I believed that all in the world was good and kind. I built my life on promises of happily every after. I found that no other could ever capture my heart. Because you said, "I love you" The day your reality blindsided me hit like a heart attack. The day, a future crumbled to oblivion. The day after which every day became a struggle. Because you said, "I love you" I can never be the same as I was before. I pray for death to find me and cease the masquerade. I hope for nothing in the shadow of a fairy tale. Miranda N. Prather the mother
whom i couldn't love better forgive me mother for i have sinned the Daughter as kind and sweet as i was tarnished whom has the courts for Her baby-sitter and the Holy Ghost whom continues to haunt me with circumspect indifference Opportunistic Lover that clenches my heart like a fetter for Theirs is the kingdom and the glory and the power forever amen |
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