I revel in terms of venery--venereal terms--which in sex means contractural pathology or wanton indulgence--but in nature means "nouns of assembly." As such, I relate to the poetic vibes from terms of venery, be it a herd of fauna, a bush of flora, or a buffoonery of clowns.

My bible is the Boke of Seynt Albans, which first cataloged terms of venery in 1486. I consider its wisdom a lobe of cognition.

As such, one beautiful day I was out and about in a warmth of sunshine, under a gauze of puffy white clouds, under a beaucoup of bluesy sky. A flight of birds sang, carried on a zephyrate of cool breezes, occasionally spoiled by a choke of smokers. Being an amateur ornithologist, I heard a chittering of high pitches--not so much a song--as just a goof of happiness from a charm of hummingbirds--and elusive as a cauldron of bats.

After ticking off a uhaul of boxes, e.g., murder of crows, Parliament of owls, exaltation of larks, and gaggle of geese, I plowed through a squalor of people and began thinking of them venereally (noun-collecting, not sexually...well, not at first). I dutifully recorded my observations in a frenzy of St. Albans documentation.

It was lunchtime and the first thing I recorded was a pudge of obese people, the term of venery that invokes both a pod of whales and the fudge pudges often eat.

I passed a silence of mimes performing at the park but, as if karma, was then assaulted by a dump of discourse from a man with a megaphone. Back across the street, I had to step over a shitload of miscreants. I made my way toward the library but at the corner had to wait for a contrary of no-right-turn right-turn turners, who always drive, as a priviligata of imbecilia, luxury cars.

Finally, frustrated, I walked against the light and was quickly surrounded by a donut of cops. They surrounded me like dough encircles a hole. Ironically, I was laughed at by a gape of assholes.

Next I needed to hire represenation from a letch of lawyers. I got off but had to do community hours, supervised by a maroon of morons.

A bildungsroman dedicated to Sarina

Chapter One

My mother told me I was born in Innsbruck, Austria. My grandmother insists it was Goa, in India. Neither will call the other a liar. Both refer to the word “incorrect” when in each other’s presence. When alone with me, “refer” becomes “insists”.

Be it economics or terrorism, my family departed to safer and more profitable shores. I was 7 when we settled near Atlanta, Georgia. My father is a pediatrician, my mother a lawyer. Thus, my grandmother became my babysitter.

When the doctor diagnosed my grandmother with inoperable small cell lung cancer, I became her babysitter. I was barely 10 when my childhood ended.

Within three months of receiving her diagnosis, my grandmother lay dying on her bed. To her son, my father, she willed her life savings. To her daughter-in-law, my mother, she gave the entirety of her jewelry and art. Both were grateful, but neither seemed surprised. Ours was a small family, thousands of miles distant from distant relatives. As with everything my grandmother did, it just seemed simpler to conduct her final business as such.

I was at her side that day. I held my tongue preventing the obvious questions a ten year old would ask a dying woman in a generous mood.

My patience did not go unnoticed.

As a penultimate exercise, she waved her hand, gesturing me closer. She wanted to say something in hushed tones that I, and not my parents could hear. I did as asked. I leaned in and felt the full embrace of her grasp, pulling me closer. With her other hand, she placed her thumb on my forehead. My scream came from the burning sensation from her thumb, not her (surprisingly) strong grasp. My parents pulled me away, breaking the contact. I fell to the floor missing the moment of my grandmother’s death. She was depleted from both the cancer and her advanced age. I was depleted from the bruises on my wrist and the small mark on my forehead.

Both the bruise and the mark would fade within a week. However, what was delivered through each remains with me to this day.

By the end of the week, I began experiencing frequent mild headaches. My mother booked an appointment with a local physician at the nearest hospital for a routine checkup. I went, spent barely 30 minutes there, and watched the billing agent for the doctor present my mother with a $1200 bill. While my parents did hold a better than decent health insurance family policy, my mother did balk at the cost of the services. The billing agent assured us that our out of pocket expense for today was only $99 and the insurance would cover the rest. My mother felt relieved. I felt infuriated.

Then I became infuriated.

I grabbed the bill and began a tirade the origin of which was not from anything I previously learned.

Not from anything that would originate from me.

“According to Georgia law, under the Georgia Fair Business Practices Act, OCGA section 10-1-393(b)(14), a hospital has only 6 days, after release, to provide the patient an itemized list of all incurred charges and expenses. You have completed that task. However, in doing so, you list two aspirins at $450 each. Your HCPCS number is not consistent with these expenses. You are billing for two separate doctors prescribing 1 aspirin each. During my half an hour here, I never saw, nor was seen by a single doctor. The parking lot has no cars parked in the reserved doctor’s spots. In fact, only a single nurse examined me, took my temperature, and gave me a single aspirin for now and another one for later. The itemized charge for a non-physician prescription requires a maximum billing of $45 per aspirin, still an exorbitant fee, but at least one that will withstand the scrutiny of a legal challenge.”

My mother gasped and the billing agent told my mother that children are best seen, not heard. The mother in her decided to deal with my outburst later and privately. The lawyer in her decided to immediately challenge the bill. Needless to say, one access to a smart phone accessing a law library and the hospital’s billing agent wilted.

We were nearly home before my mother began her cross examination of my newly disclosed legal knowledge.

I tried explaining I had no idea as to what I said, only that it needed to be said. It was as if something from inside used me as a springboard to fight this injustice.

My mother did not accept the premise of my response. No ten year old has command of that much vocabulary or the presence in which to use it effectively.

For the remainder of the ride, I sang a song, “Aadmi Musafir Hai”.

“Where did you learn that song?”, my mother inquired.

“From grandmother, before she died”, was all I could muster. Once again, I did not know why I said what I said. My mother looked at me with that arched right eyebrow she usually reserves for witness stand perjurers she encounters during trials.

For the remainder of the day, I looked and acted the ten years I was.

Chapter Two

My cherub looks barely camouflaged my exponentially increasing level of curiosity with all aspects of life no child should even tangentially approach. Today I began taking an interest in my father’s work on the family’s federal tax returns.

My questions began in earnest.

“I do not understand. What is the purpose of taxes?”

My father, ever the scholar in search of a student, decided now was as good as any time to fill my head with reasons he hoped would suffice, hoped would urge me to accept.

“Taxes, in this case federal taxes, are the cost that citizens and residents pay to fund the legitimate functions of government. Without income tax, the government would go bankrupt, and the country would be in a financial mess.”

I replied, “If the United States became a country in 1776, but the 16th Amendment to the Constitution, which authorized the creation of income taxes did not pass Congress until 1909, and was not ratified until 1913, how did the federal government pay for its legitimate functions during the first 137 years without an income tax?”

“You sound like your grandmother. She always asked such questions.”

“Did she ever receive answers to such questions?”

The look my father gave me left an indelible impression upon me. He no longer looked at me as I was, but what I might become.

I never thanked him for his decision.

“I guess the federal government kept the expenditures small and worked within a system of tariffs, excises, levies, and tolls to generate wealth covering the county’s liabilities.” He was proud of his reply, almost rehearsed, almost correct.

“But, aren’t tariffs, excises, levies, and tolls all taxes to be paid from income earned in an exchange for labor provided? To impose any of these synonyms for a tax as a tax, without calling each for what they are, namely a tax, is disingenuous at best, a lie at worst.”

“Furthermore, isn’t usurpation of wealth illegal?”

“Not in some cases. Eminent domain permits the government to seize property.”

I interrupted my father, “But only with just compensation and due process.”

Such vocabulary emanating from my mouth was not among the list of my father’s expectations for me at my age. The word for this is precocious.

“Who taught you to speak like this?”

All I could think of as a reply was, “School”.

I gave my father a few minutes before I began again.

“Do we owe taxes?”

His answer, in short, was, “Yes.” In the long, he explained withholding, tax penalties, deductions, and the progressive tax systems to me. He told me that those who make more income shoulder the responsibility to pay a higher percent of their income as taxes. In this way, every member of society benefits accordingly. I took it all in, surprisingly, and felt an inward confusion I had never before experienced. This information was easy to understand, but what I had to say was not.

I could not be the first person to say this.

“If the federal government of the United States, as I learned in school, prints all of the money, why do they need to collect taxes from us? Couldn’t they just print more money?”

My father insisted such an action would be fiscally irresponsible and the voters would elect more prudent stewards of the treasury to keep such actions in check.

“Then why has this not happened? Despite the economic problems such an action would create, haven’t the same fiscally irresponsible politicians been printing fiat currency for decades, slowly growing the debt, slowly eroding financial confidence in the government, until more Draconian measures become required to, not fix, but only forestall, an inevitable collapse.”

“In addition, it should not come as any surprise that the numbers of those who contribute nothing to the coffers continue to grow and those who actually fill the coffers, their numbers continue to decline. There must be a breaking point, right?”

That one came from within me, but not from me. I heard my voice speaking such words and if challenged, I could not properly define fiat or Draconian, let alone coffers.

My father looked as amazed as I did.

My mother, who walked into the room only seconds later, snapped both of us back to reality.

Extending his index, my father gestured toward me and then back to him when he uttered, “We will speak again on this and many more things later.”

Those were my grandmother’s words and gestures when my father was my age. Today, posthumously, my grandmother passed the tradition ahead by one generation.

It would not be the last time such events would occur.

Chapter Three

During my chauffeured ride to school on Wednesday, the local police decided to disrupt the normal flow of morning traffic with a sobriety checkpoint. This worried my mother, not that she ever imbibes, but that she was in a rush today and did not have her wallet that contained her driver’s license.

A series of officers decided to waive our car over to the inspection lot for “further review”.

My mother looked visibly worried.

The police officer took this as suspicious and ordered both of us out of the vehicle.

I had access to my mother’s phone and began recording, just in case.

“Young lady, you must exit the car.”

I reiterated my refusal. I began explaining to the officer that neither myself nor my mother have committed a crime, and his orders violated our 4th Amendment rights. “Do you have a warrant for our arrest?” He said no. “Are we being detained?” He thought he would humor me and continue this conversation. His answer was, “Yes”.

“Please state your reasonable articulable suspicion as to the cause of our detainment.”

I stole the words out of my mother’s mouth.

Not enough to satisfy the officer’s demands, but more than enough for my mother to regain her composure, de-escalate the situation, and accept her citation for operating a motor vehicle without having her driver’s license.

The cost to my mother was nearly $500 and an appearance in court.

The cost to me was a return trip home and an interrogation.

“What was that all about young lady? Do you realize what you said could have made a simple situation worse for both of us? What do you have to say for yourself?”

She asked. I tried to filter what I heard myself say sans (where did I learn THAT word!) success.

“Police, and by police, I mean government in every respect, are grooming the people of the world into a level of docile submission, to forgo all Constitutional and human rights, to accept illegal authority in all of its forms, and to placate the fears of those who understand what tyranny is as merely a requirement of civilized people to accept.” I showed her the video on her own phone and asked her to look into the eyes of the officer and then the additional five officers who surrounded the two of us. “Their smiles vanished upon hearing my refusal. They became incensed at the thought that I, or anyone else, would even think about their rights, let alone try to exercise them. These are not exceptions to the rule. These forced submissions are merely the outward vestiges of something far more sinister, far more devious, but no less evil than every authoritarian regime in human history. To think it cannot happen here is a mistake. It just did and it will again.”

I had to inhale after that monologue.

So did my mother.

She had to accept what I said was true. We are here because the brutality of soldiers, terrorists, and local government is why we left. I heard the stories from my grandmother. I see the remorse on my father’s face when he tells me of our flight. He could save us from the violence, but he could not stop it. Others were still under the weight of its yoke. Just because we no longer see them or hear from them does not make their lives any safer. Our lives will be their lives if we do nothing to make it otherwise.

My mother no longer viewed me as a ten year old, or a twenty year old. I heard her speak to my father about what ideas his mother put in my head, what she did to me when they weren’t looking.

She said I might be possessed and something should be done.

My father agreed, in part. The next day, he stayed home with me to see me read and then hear me recite from one of his favorite books, Frederic Bastiat’s, “The Law”.

Fifty pages never felt so good.

Chapter Four

It was a Saturday and my father decided to take me to his work to meet (i.e. be interviewed, possibly diagnosed) by one of his colleagues, Dr. Charles Winston. Much like an old dog who needed shots from the vet, my father tried to trick me into submission. I explained to him I had no remorse with his decision or the inevitable repercussions.

My father always acted in my best interest, even when I knew otherwise.

Dr. Watson had me sit at a table with a variety of crayons, one pencil, and one ballpoint pen. He asked me to draw something that I found interesting. I wrote the number 998001. Then I wrote its reciprocal as a fraction. Then I began writing the fraction as a decimal. It began as .000001002003004005006007 all the way to so as to include all three digit numbers (except 998) to 999.

I then wrote 998001 as 999 squared.

The good doctor was not ready for me.

He asked if I enjoyed puzzles. I replied I did.

Then I wrote the words, “Where”, “What”, and “When”. I asked Dr. Watson if he could change a single letter in each of these three questions with another single letter to provide an answer to each question.

Perhaps he was holding his answer back. Perhaps he was truly in observation mode. Either way, Dr. Watson did not reply. In the interim, I surveyed his office for where I would place a camera. When he did not answer, I turned to the best location for a camera and explained that by changing the W in each word with a T, then the riddle would be solved.

I could have uttered “QED” just as easily.

By 1pm, I had explained my philosophy on whether man has free will or not. I responded to the good doctor’s questions about morality being subjective or absolute. I parried with quips about the nature of basic human rights and that they are not bestowed by government, thus they can not be limited or revoked by the same.

Dr. Watson wanted to confirm that I was indeed ten years old.

Taking the bait, as my father arrived, I paraphrased Holmes with, “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

The good doctor had a new topic for a new research study.

He also had a table of unused crayons for the next interview.

My father never asked questions about the events of that day. I never asked why he never asked. The 600 pound gorilla in the room had already left the building (so to speak).

That night, as my father tucked me into bed, I said, “I forgive you.”

He understood as much as I understood. The only difference was that I did not go to sleep worried.

Chapter Five

My parents decided that I needed a hobby. Something innocuous, something educational, something appropriate for my age. Something with which I would not ask difficult questions.

They settled on a telescope.

With a bit of research, I asked for an Astro Fi 102 Maksutov-Cassegrain telescope because of its large aperture and long focal length making it ideal for observing planetary objects in the Sol system. My father rolled his eyes on the price and my mother audibly wondered if another, somewhat simpler model would suffice. I began to speak of my new-found knowledge of tort reform and angioplasty procedures.

My parents acquiesced in exchange for the “diversion” as they would call it. I never ceased reading their medical and legal texts, but now, I began an in-depth study of the cosmos to pacify their worries and satisfy my neoteric curiosity.

By day, I read what I could find. By night, through my open bedroom window, I located what I read about. The planets, their moons, and rings became my playground. Titan, Europa, Phobos, and the Asteroid Belt became my playmates. My parents, relieved that I gravitated back to normality, breathed a sigh of relief.

Until I turned 11.

Then I discovered game shows for children, the Scripps Spelling Bee, local and state geography championships, and of course, writing competitions.

My excuse was that I could win scholarship money for participating, and possibly winning. My parents became more skeptical with each entry form I completed. They informed me we didn’t need the money (really, we didn’t need the attention) these contests offered. My parents earned enough to fund my future educational needs. I countered with arguments that if my financial future was secure, each of these contests (i.e. opportunities) garnered nothing short of positive exposure for me; possibly access to choice employment opportunities.

It was a foregone conclusion when I was accepted for the state spelling bee tournament. I placed first, easily.

I also won a geography bee, a series of trivia competitions, and a math olympiad (usually) reserved for high school students.

It was with this last victory that I found the confidence to sit for both the SAT and ACT exams in which my scores were 1540 and an average of 35, respectfully. The offers for early admission for a variety of prestigious colleges and universities poured in. I was at a loss among the myriad of offers and the associated due dates for decisions. I took solace in my room, watching the night skies, scrutinizing the heavens for answers.

My parents took my silence and subsequent withdrawal from my newly minted celebrity life as a typical response any typical child might have.

Unfortunately, their diagnosis was wrong, so very wrong.

By December of that year, I decided to accept an offer to endorse a cereal company’s newest

product. To do so, I had to eat the cereal and found both the taste and texture to be repugnant. The ingredients listed on the package barely consisted of the actual ingredients in the product. The lawyers for the manufacturer explained that their nutritional disclosure was within the legal requirements of “full disclosure” and demanded that I fulfill my contractual duties and read my lines as written.

For the first time in my life, I required bearings from my moral compass. I thought deeply about the consequences should I default in my duties versus how I could live with myself should I lie (my words) about the wholesomeness (their words) of the product. I asked my parents for advice, but it was what my grandmother once told me that I heeded. She quoted Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, Act 1, Scene 3, when Polonius states,

This above all - to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst be false to any man.

So initiated one of the largest lawsuits in the State of Georgia. The court battle took nearly a year, exhausted half of my family’s savings, and left my parents urging me, on a daily basis, to accept the cereal company’s offer to do the commercial and make a public apology. I held defiant in my obstinance, accepting offers from reporters and talk show hosts to discuss my situation. I was on virtually every channel, radio station, podcast, and social media outlet. I spent every night looking through my telescope at the asteroid belt and every morning trying my case in the court of public opinion.

My parents stood by my side. My mother petitioned for an examination of FDA regulations for nutritional disclosures. With each passing day, public opinion weighed in my favor, eventually resulting in a settlement in which the cereal company released me from my contract and I promised never to speak of them or their product again.

No money changed hands. No punitive damages sought. The cereal manufacturer took the bold step to get ahead of the backlash by redesigning their brand to be even more nutritious than before. I took the bold step to take the rest of the semester off from school (i.e. a formal transfer from public school to homeschool) in lieu of accepting one of the many college offers still pending.

I went from an unknown 6th grader to an instantly recognizable spokesperson. Millions followed me online. Millions more wanted to know everything about me. Rumors began to spread about my dating life (I have none) and what designer clothes I wear (none) to reports of what beach and nightclubs I frequent (once again, none). Despite all of this, when I met people, I sensed they believed what I had to say. They trusted me. They felt a kinship (my grandmother’s words) with me. The real people of Georgia and the United States wanted to listen to someone who said something worth listening to. Yet, their numbers were dwarfed by the rest of the population who just wanted me. As such, I isolated myself at home, kept to myself, and watched the universe through my telescope.

And that’s when all of the real problems began.

I decided to give my life direction. In January, I remained local and enrolled, part time at Emory University to begin my general studies coursework. Logistically, this made my parents very happy.

Despite my instant fame, I decided not to host my own podcast, run my own webpage, appear on a variety of reality TV shows, or make-the-tour of the late night television world. I wanted to remain focused on my studies and my telescope exploration.

However, despite my best intentions, I still had to work at keeping the paparazzi at bay. When I denied them access, they fabricated stories. My mother filed restraining orders and lawsuits, but to no avail. Some even went as far as enrolling in my classes to become my study buddy or lab partner. Everything I said was self-filtered before I said it. Every piece of trash had to be overwritten and then shredded (twice) before burning in the fireplace. My father brought home and installed two audio scramblers so as to prevent acoustical spying from passerbys.

My home became my prison.

I wanted out of my fame. I wanted to be left alone. As bad as I had it, my parents suffered more. My father found it difficult to service clients when half of his new clients only wanted him to gain access to me. My mother discovered a life of frivolous legal battles for the same reasons.

In essence, I was ruining their lives.

It wasn’t until the spring when I could stargaze again. The best time was at night from 1am until 4am. My favorite planet to watch was Mars.

Currently, Mars is just under 200 million miles from Earth or just over 2 astronomical units. This distance varies depending on the position of Earth and Mars in their respective orbits. Mars has two moons (Phobos and Deimos) believed by NASA and JPL to be captured asteroids. I have been able to track both of them on specific days at specific times using my telescope.

Tonight was no different in the process, but entirely different in the results.

Tonight, Mars has three moons.

Chapter Six

I told my father and my mother. Neither believed me. Then they looked. Then they looked again. My mother did not understand the significance of the event. My father knew an additional moon was (at best) an inauspicious event. At worst, an event worthy of a few phone calls to people paid to understand the ramifications.

By noon the next day, a car arrived with men from both the military and NASA. Upon introducing themselves, they asked the three of us (my father, my mother, and me) to go with them while there is still time. The ominous look on their faces and the matte black finish on their pistols resulted in few alternatives. In the car, I met a nice woman (her badge said Melissa Jones) from Pan-STARRS (Panoramic Survey Telescope and Rapid Response System) in Hawaii who was as calm as I was befuddled. Our initial briefing included sketchy details involving a nationwide sense of urgency concluding with the acronym of ELE. I did not require the translation.

Our destination was the Atlanta local ABC network, WSB, to record a series of public service announcements (PSA) for immediate public service consumption. At first, I did not understand the role I was to play. By the time we finished, I wish I never understood.

The drive took only thirty minutes. The makeup and prep took even less. I insisted on my parents being with me during the entire ordeal. Miss Jones kept briefing me on what I was required to say, never asking once if I wanted to participate. Legally, I had no obligation to cooperate. Morally, I knew I had no other choice.

During the first PSA, I was to use my fame, my smile, and charm to greet all Americans and wish them a happy new year. The next PSA was as innocuous as the first. This time, I remained the cheerful cherub wishing the same group of Americans the same greetings during their 4th of July celebration.

Now, I work hard so as not to be played as a fool. My years are only as limited as my patience. I had nothing left to lose when I asked, “How much time do we have before the next asteroid hits Earth and kills everyone everywhere?”

My parents were aghast. The men tried to ignore me. Only Miss Jones broke character, looking for permission and receiving it, before she began to explain the grim news.

“You are quite the precocious girl! Alright, here is the truth you already suspect. I was the first to discover the third moon of Mars. When I made my report, others turned their attention to discover a plethora of asteroids moving toward Mars and Earth. The moon you discovered is only temporary. Its orbit is unstable, causing gravitational fluxes moving more debris. In thirty days, this debris field will strike Earth causing worldwide extinctions.”

“That is the good news.”

My mother frantically interjected, “What is the bad news?”

Miss Jones replied, “I made that 30 day prediction 29 days ago.”

So I sat in the chair, wishing I did not know. I wished for just one more day, just one more sunrise.

I wished for the life I was to have, blissfully ignorant of all that I knew.

“The time is short”, said Miss Jones, “and we need you to do what only you can do.” I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. “We need you to make just one more PSA because people know you and want to trust you. We need you to forget the disaster that will happen and help prevent the riots, chaos, looting, and pillaging that will also happen. The debris field will impact Earth over the course of the next 12 hours. Survivors will panic and begin killing others in an effort to survive the unsurvivable. The government is moving key personnel to shelters in the hope of a continuation of our species.”

My father had to ask, “What are the chances of human survival? And when are we to be moved to safety?”

Miss Jones gave the briefest of answers. At first, she only spoke the word, “slim”. To the second, while holding back her tears, she politely explained, “Never. We are expendable”.

Somewhere in the Orion Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy, roughly two-thirds from the galactic center, resides a small blue marble of little significance other than from its own local character where once housed a multitude of carbon based species, adaptable to evolutionary forces of heat, pressure, and time, ready to begin the cycle anew.

We do this all the time, this expectation for another new year to be better htan the last then it proceeds to feel more awful than the one before. There is a genocide that makes me feel like if I was alive during the Holocaust and faced with the images that have twisted my stomach since 6th grade, I would still be here just liking them on Instagram and moving on. A is such a funny word. No, multiple genocides. Children mining for the cobalt that makes this little lightbox in my hand that gives me dopamine like Pez dying daily in Sudan (I think, God there's so much to remember nowadays), yet I still am against having a diamong ring anywhere near my hands (or other body parts I guess) because I refuse to fund such an unsafe environment for tradition.

I want to get closer to God but it feels like I can't without walking myself to the pearly gates because the world is full of noise, noise, noise. I feel like the Grinch, the original without Christine Baranski and her boobs or whatever the fuck was happening that musical distracting from the fact that Christmas is just so goddamn loud that the Grinch can't get any sleep in his little mountain with his dog. Plus, it just frustrates me to hear thtem root for Israel when I just watched parents sob over bundles of cotton that were once their smiling happy children. It's disheartening to know that I'm right and hear people that I used to trust as teachers are more worried about the name in a book than what the name represents. Should we really defend land over the people on it? If Jesus died for human sins, why are we still idolizing the possession of land over the precious lives on it.

It's just so much. I can't even beg for a break because this is the part of the accident where the doctors are removing the shrapnel of windshield you didn't realize was too dirty until you hit that tree you didn't see coming. We have to go through it, not over it. What's over it? It doesn't matter. We are in the scary trench, holding onto a celestial hand and praying things will be alright. There will be more scary things to come. You thought the anglerfish was bad, but you've never seen the bottom of the ocean before. You always stopped before the end of the adage and now get to see why the curious cat is the cat that truly lives. I want to be the cat that truly gets to see the beauty of live, which means going forward and not stopping no matter how much I want to.

I do not think that 2024 will be any better than 2023 or 2022 (but hopefully better than 2021; though if not, I'll be okay with having people 6 feet away from me again. I felt someone's breath on me the other day and nearly lost my mind). I wish for peace but you can't wish for peace; you have to make peace. This is me making peace wiht the fact that peace will not come. I will not have inner or external peace. I'm already mentally preparing for November when Trump somehow wins the office and the Supreme Court fights him and he joins Israel in their onslaught on Palestine and becomes a dictator and people try to stop im by striking but the three moneybags, Zuck, Musk, and Jeff fund him anyway and Mr. Tiny-Dick-Tator goes on and on until the rush of power he's never had before gives him a stroke and he dies at 80. It's going to happen. I'm just happy we get to fight a war in gym shoes and sweatpants instead of heels and dresses.

I think in 2024, I want to live like I'm going to die. But that might lead to me actually dying since pre-diabetes doesn't mix well with eating every shape of pasta I can legally find. I'd like to get laid again. I'd like to buy my second car. I'd like to maybe address this whole student loans thing (preferably with lawyers and dynamite, Tom and Jerry style), or say to hell with them and move to New Zealand. I'd like to continue to push my friends towards their goals, even though for them it probably feels like the Foster's Home for Imaginary Friend's game where you had to push Cheese down a hill and he only seemed to be having fun when you pushed him too fast and were trying to break/stop him from crashing. I'd like to reach out to more people and read more books (but not buy more books, for the love of God). I'd like to pray more. I want cheese. Like... A lot of cheese. I'd like to diversity my palate is probably what my brain actually meant. I just want to snag the bits of happiness that I can make in this awful disgusting place and put them in a drawer so I have something good to look back on.

This year absolutely sucked. Aside from "everything in the world going on", I lost my grandfather, someone that I loved and one of the people who helped shape the silly and weird person that I am. I fought a losing battle with student loans, barely made it out of my war with unemployment, lost a job in three weeks over nothing (the man literally cited a broken bottle as why I was let go -_- I will eventually forgive, but today is not the day). I just want to have more happiness next year to hold onto than I had this year. That's my ultimate New Years wish.

[The title is a Kung Fu Panda 2 reference. 10/10 recommend, the animation and story are both wonderful.]

Hey y’all! Thank you for being here tonight, and letting me be the center of attention for a couple minutes. Good looking crowd too. My name’s Lydie and, as you can probably already tell, I’m super good looking as well. I’m pretty adorable. I’m also very smart, thoughtful, sweet, funny, nice. Obviously humble. I’m just kidding, none of that’s true. If I’m gonna be honest…y’all are pretty ugly.

This looks like a bunch of weirdos so let’s play a game. I’m super competitive and I love winning so the game is rigged in my favor. It’s called “2 Truths and a Lie.”

My brother Adam invited (slash forced) me to go to a Coldplay concert with him on Halloween one year. Whhhy though???? Who the does that? Coldplay sucks. I didn’t want to go so, I dressed as a VERY happy clown because Adam hates clowns, and he’s my older brother so obviously I love annoying and pissing him off. So, he already hates my guts all night but later, after like 45 vodkas and several bong hits, I got the drunk girl cries. The ladies know what I’m talking about. Drunk girl cries are when 22-year-old girls start ugly crying for no apparent reason, usually locked in the bathroom. Which was the case that night. So, I’m wearing a tutu with a big red nose and curly hair rainbow wig, inconsolably sobbing in the only bathroom at a house party. My brother knocks on the door.

*Knock knock*

You okay B?

GO AWAY, I HATE EVERYONE

Can I come in?

NO, I’m HIDEOUS

Let me in. You’re not hideous.

*Click, I unlock the door and throw it open like an ANGRY clown*

My brother’s faceeeeeee was so amazing! Apparently my big red VERY happy clown smile is now smudged everywhere, and I have these crazy blue and black triangles painted on my eyes and now they’re smearing down my face with tears. My whole face was also painted ghost white because I’m absolutely nuts and I’m psychotically crying like a crazy person looking like a CRAZY CLOWN wearing a tutu. The fearrrrrrr in Adam’s face…. he whispers to me, “Please God please. You are terrifying right now, I can’t even look at you, you look insane, you’re scaring me. You have to wash your face.” Obviously, I went from hysterically crying to hysterically laughing because Adam was so mortified and he straight up turned around and ran! Best Halloween ever. No regrets. I dress up as a clown every year now.

Story Number 2

I spent an entire semester in college trying to hook up with this guy named Harry. Harry was very pretty to look at. He was the definition of a pretty boy. He had that Southern gentleman, rich boy look, which we all know can be a disguise for a huge douchebag. I used to be into that sometimes *shrug* bad girl promiscuous college years, you know? I told you I’m the worst. Anyway, Harry was one of those guys who thought he was holier than thou, and too good for everyone, including me. I’m the adorable, little, pudgy, cute, smartass, showoff girl demanding everyone’s attention. That hasn’t changed. And Harry didn’t like me at all, so naturally I saw that as a challenge to trick him with my manipulative witchcraft. Did I mention I’m a witch? That’s another story. My mom hates that one. But anyway, Harry needed a little persuasion to make out with me, and I had to use all my evil wit and charm to make it happen. It took a couple drunken nights, but we’re finally making out at a frat party in a stranger’s dirty gross bedroom. All the lights are on because I like to know what I’m signing up for. I highly recommend keeping the lights on during new sexy time encounters. Let me tell you why. So, I’m on my knees, waiting for the show, and Harry unzips his stupid short short khakis. You know, the douchy ones frat guys wear…*zipppp, shuffle hands, plops it out* Then yoooo y’all! I was speechless. A full 3 seconds of shocked, painfully awkward silence from me staring at his dick. It was sooooo small that I actually forgot what I was looking at. And then, because I’m a horrible person, the next thing I did was laugh out loud SO LOUD and I yelled EVEN LOUDER, heartlessly kind of… “Holy shit, no fucking way. That’s it?” The look of horror on that dude’s face…pure joy for me. Fucking hilarious and terrible as fuck too. So GOOD. And then what did I do? While I’m evil so I stood up, turned around, and left the room still giggling. *Shrug, evil laugh* But really though guys, my advice to all the dudes here tonight - if you have a little dick, you shouldn’t BE a huge dick too. There will be laughs at your expense, and you’ll deserve it. 15 years later, I can sense an asshole person with a dinky dicky before I have to see their whole package now thank God. It’s called “small dick energy” and I think about Harry’s little wienie every time. As a grown woman, I’ll take a nice guy with a small penis no problem, no jokes and I will love that dick good. But even my younger, drunker, hedonist self didn’t accept a jerkoff with a tiny jerkoff. That was the best frat party I ever went to.

More recently, I was simultaneously extremely scared and then preceded to one up the person scaring me by being that much more insane. Did you know that creepy gargoyles are supposed to ward off evil spirits and protect the people inside their buildings? Gargoyles are scary because you gotta be scary to scare away scary shit. Remember that if you’re walking by yourself at night and you’re scared. If you act batshit nuts and start talking to yourself like you’re a pissed off schizophrenic then other scary people will be scared of you too. You must be scarier than the scary people. They’ll leave you alone if you look like a sociopath. So that’s what I did to this poor man the other night. I’ve been friends with this guy for a few months. His name is Justin, and we’ve hung out at my house alone at night a few times. Just friends, no hanky panky…he would though so I have to set the boundaries. It’s not entirely untrue that men can’t be friends with women without wanting the sex, but women can 100% be friends with men. Men are mostly dumb and also fairly scary, even if I “mostly” trust them not to kill me and necrophilia my dead body. I heard morgues don’t hire many men anymore *evil laugh* I have lots of radically unpopular views about men, but I’ll save that for another bit. Anyway, I’m hanging out with Justin who I’m 95% sure is a solid human being and good person, but it’s my first time hanging out at his house ever and we’re alone at night and pretty drunk and high. As soon as we get there, I lean over to take a huge line of coca that he’s generously offered me, and as soon as I put my nose to the counter, I hear this BZZZZZZZZZ. So, fucking loud and I jump like one of those crazy cats 8 feet in the air. And he laughs, and I laugh, and I was like “What the fuck was that? Poor timing dude.” And he goes “Oh it’s a taser. My mom left it here.” *Laughing with scared look in my eyes* “Oh my god, why do you have that? Why does your mom have that?” I love being scared and watching scary movies. I’m the one who screams in the movie theater when everyone jumps, and then everyone laughs, including me. Being scared is good fun. With exceptions thoughhhhhh! At this point, I’m still laughing with Justin and he reminds me how his mom is kinda crazy doomsday prepper, which I AM TOOOOO. But I forgot, but now that makes sense why there’s a super strength legit military level taser in the kitchen. So, I laugh more, consider being tased for funsies, but decide against that because I don’t want to piss myself in front of Justin. Maybe 30-40 minutes later, Justin disappears to pee in a toilet like a rational person because he didn’t want to be tased either. But dude comes back with a little black box, and I’m thinking, “Oh cool, what’s in the box?” Not Brad Pitt “WHAT’S IN THE BOX???” Just regular, unconcerned curiosity. I didn’t even ask “What’s in the box?" out loud? So, what is in the box you ask? A fucking little hardcore looking all black Glock and some big ass brass bullets.. So now I’m legitimately concerned because I’m not a total idiot. That’s not true. I am a total idiot, but I’m also a fighter, not a flighter and I will fight anyone and win. So, I say “Yooo! Is that a fucking gun?” And he’s like “Yeah, I thought you liked guns, and we’re talking about the apocalypse. I’m sorry. Is this weird? I guess it’s weird. I’m so sorry. I can put it away.” Good answer Justin…I’m immediately comforted because he’s super concerned by my discomfort and I’m all cool and tell him, straight up dead ass serious, “Yeah, it’s a little weird that you have a taser on the counter and a gun in your hand 30 minutes after I get here, but I will 100% kill you first if this goes sideways, and I’ll kill your dog too. I love dogs, Justin. Don’t make me kill Beasley. He’s so slow and easy to kill, just like you.” I didn’t laugh or smile at all. Justin laughed though. It was super funny nervous laughter, which I greatly enjoyed, and he’s kind of shouts, “Oh my God! No! do not kill my dog. I just wanted to show you my cool little gun. I’m putting it away. Please don't kill Beasley” So now Justin knows I’m scarier than him so I tell him I’m “just kidding.” Greatest weird night this month. Tell me about your cool gun, I love it. Also, still appropriately cautious for a drunk woman alone at night somewhere in Manassas with a nice dog and a serial killer.

My favorite serial killer is Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dahmer is a close second. Bundy because he’s kind of hot, and I’m not entirely sure small dick energy applies to him. Why isn’t that included in his documentaries? Dahmer loses points for targeting a marginalized community within a marginalized community, but he eats people which is kind of cool. I’d prefer a justified vigilante cannibal instead of a creeper preying on completely innocent poor black gay men. But of all the serial killers, the scariest one is Pogo, the closeted killer clown notoriously donned by John Wayne Gacy. Nothing is scarier than a very happy, normal, cool clown throwing parties and burying kids under his floorboards. I have a life-size clown in my basement named Pogo. Sometimes he's in the kitchen. My brother doesn’t like him. Neither does my mom. I should lie to my mom more often about my stories. I also forgot to lie to y’all too with the whole “2 Truths and a Lie” game. Were they all true or all lies? Or was I cheating? Lying and cheating aren't always terrible. Lie to save your life. Cheat death to stay alive. Life is funny. But life is also scary. If it's fun to be scared and death is scary, then that must mean death is just as funny and fun as life. That's a pretty scary funny thought. Okay, I'm done here. Goodnight, sweet dreams, don’t forget to look under your bed and over your shoulder tonight! Byeeeee!!!!