I didn’t know what to call her. What could I call her? The baby wasn’t even mine. What’s worse is I don’t remember how she got into my arms. I had no idea what to do except go home and see if I could figure things out.

The last thing I recalled was something I did two weeks ago, where I interviewed for a position at a mental hospital. I wanted to be one of the technicians looking after patients, but I guess they either didn’t need me, or they called and I don’t remember it.

There was only one thing to do. I was getting ready to enter the workforce, and couldn’t support a child. I felt I would be doing a great disservice to that baby if I didn’t put her up for adoption. I imagine she’s found a good family by now.

I feel like I’m running faster than I’m supposed to, and what do I have to show for it? No, this can’t be a good way to think. I know life’s not about trying to reach one unattainable goal after the next, even if that’s what it feels like half -possibly most- of the time.

Not for a moment did I regret what I did, but sometimes I think of a name I could’ve given her. My mind would make up possibilities that I’ll never know because I chose not to be her parent. I think I’m meant to make a difference in another way. There’s no one way to do much of anything. Different variables play out in different ways in peoples’ lives, I believe.

Well, that baby’s going to grow up into a fine young lady, I tell myself. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need to be chained to a crib 24/7. One day, hopefully, we’ll meet again, and when we do, I’m going to be proud of her, as much as I possibly can.

I’m still looking for work. Maybe I’m not meant for behavioral services. For some reason I’m drawn to those who have mental disorders. I just can’t imagine it being easy to have your own brain turn on you. Someday I might be able to work in that capacity, but it seems like nobody’s hiring. It’s either that or I’ve become really bad at interviewing overnight.

I’m single, not really looking for love, or the responsibilities associated with a child. I’m just here to try and smile when someone’s frowning, or open the door for an elderly couple when I get the chance. It’s the small things that matter. I’m content living a simple life, but I do really need to look for work because my savings are almost gone.

Being single is working out really well for me. I don’t feel any kind of a void being by myself. I think it’s easier just having me to deal with. I don’t think I could handle the habits of another person in my space without getting irritated, unless it’s only for a short amount of time.

One day, I might run into that baby all grown up and not even know it. Why do I feel pride in a child that’s not my own? My memory’s not that bad, not to the point that I can’t even remember whether or not if I was pregnant.

I’m thinking about volunteering while I work. I love how there are so many jobs out there, so many things to learn, so many people to interact with. I was thinking about serving at soup kitchen on Saturdays.

There’s talk going on of an organization that’s looking to treat mental patients -for free. I sense there’s a lot of money that's going into the project, but that’s just my gut feeling on the matter. Maybe I could look into what this organization is. I could see myself working for a cause untainted by the stain of money, but I need to support myself, too!

Pardon me.

I’m getting worked up over nothing.

I don’t even know if this organization’s real or not. Soon enough, the truth will manifest itself. Until then, I’d be happy with a job doing anything. I could work in a warehouse. I don’t want to, but we’ll just have to see. I’d like to learn more about that rumor.

For now, I’ve gotta check out this new video game that’s just hit the market. For a moment I imagined playing video games with who could’ve been my daughter. I don’t know if I can shake this misplaced sense of longing, but it's too late now.

She’s gone, and that’s just the way it is, and it’s my fault.

The night was cold. I was sitting outside on my small patio, thinking until my gears started squealing in protest. That’s how I would fill the “emptiness,” working for this mysterious entity, if I do feel I suffer from such a thing.

In the depths of hell, there were the souls of the damned, and every tortured scream they unleashed would be collected into a special vile. Hellish scientists then used magic to transform the piercing shrieks to form an unfathomably fiercesome beast.

To Suzie Slasher, though, the beast would be like having a family dog.

Other-worldly grunts could be heard.

Unnatural growls continued to call out from the cookie-cutter suburban home’s green, perfectly trimmed backyard.

Snohomish was home to some of the most grisly murders to date, especially during the time when witches were hunted vigorously. It was always winter in Snohomish, too, to the dismay of stammering meteorologists.

There was a tourist attraction in town, a haunted house. Only little Suzie and her mother, because of a witch’s blood that flowed through their veins, had any clue as to what really was going to happen in that ghostly attraction.

There were a few spells that were known to the wily woman and her daughter, the kind that confused onlookers, affecting memory for the next twenty-four hours.

Suzie’s mother heard noises, but due to the magic in her veins, didn’t think anything of it, almost as if the beast was nothing more than a chirping songbird.

Suzie herself had been dreaming of the strange beast, and awoke to the noises outside. Once outside, Suzie sleepily made her way to the backyard. There were red eyes glowing back at her. Suzie yawned, then sweetly smiled.

When Suzie approached the beast, she held out a small hand to touch it, even if it was mostly large pores oozing blood. In that moment, when she made contact, her eyes rolled backwards as she slipped into a trance. She saw humans in a meat-packing plant.

To her, it was obvious that hell had special plans for those brave enough to enter the territory of hell’s domain, and its portal would be at the haunted house, for as long as it was the right season, and with the help of a little magic, that could be forever.

There was only one thing Suzie had to do until she could joyfully embrace all the death that would befall to those victim to hell’s ploy: Open another portal.

Suzie’s eyes returned normal, and she went to the haunted house, dead in the middle of night, opening the portal that lead directly to hell, located right by the exit of the attraction.

The next few weeks, people would disappear, and no one would know why, even with the stench of human meat constantly permeating the air, escaping from the invisible portal.

Chuck, a butcher and good friend of Suzie, happily managed the human meat-packing plant from capture, to finished product. Not only would Chuck eat well, and ravenously so, but all of Snohomish would, and anyone just dying for it.

I have done it. Done what? The impossible. How’s that? I put myself into a coma by eating about fifty whoppers within twelve minutes.

So much for losing weight. It’s how you wear it anyway, right? As long as there are no health concerns, I don’t see what the problem is.

I don’t even remember what it was like, the whopper coma. You see, I was pretty out of it.

The whopper coma lasted maybe twenty minutes, and was characterized by feelings of guilt surrounding a tummy threatening to get bigger, and how offended I was that it, with all these whoppers coursing through my body, I was probably 50% whopper at the time, no doubt.

I don’t remember much besides the guilt, but then there was this big blur, and before I knew it, I’d snapped back into reality. You may say, though: “Mara! Silly! You probably took a nap!”

Plausible. Very plausible.

However, I contend that the coma was induced by an outrageous amount of delicious, small, chocolate-covered malt balls. It never felt so good to be completely out of it, except if maybe I just forgot what was going on, which happens, and decided to zone out.

I do remember a comment being made that my sudden lapse into another, more delicious realm could, medically, have to do with the sheer metric ton of whoppers I downed in what might rightly be called: “The incident of the whopper” . . . and I wonder why I never seem to lose weight. (Oh well!)

Of course, “medically,” in this case, means: “No training as a doctor at all.” Still, the commentator could be an expert. Many people aren’t as they seem (looks around suspiciously).

You only live once!

Seriously though, if you give me a whopper, you can keep it. I’m full. Not just that, but if I had my blood tested, a befuddled doctor would probably look at me and say: “I don’t know how, but your blood type is ‘whopper!’”

Why wouldn’t he say “congratulations!” after saying something like that?!

There’s so much going on in life. Can I handle it all? Am I making wrong decisions? Even with well-intentioned people giving advice, it’s still hard to know what to do. Maybe if I could understand this brain of mine I’d be more capable at doing what I want, but isn’t that one of the great mysteries of life, the functioning of the human brain?

For a while, back when I was twenty-one (seven years ago), I thought about becoming a cardiac surgeon. I didn’t think it was a bad idea, but when I realized how much school and money it would take, I reconsidered. And then, of course, I wanted to be a musician, too. (Always. I love singing and playing the piano. It’s my thang.)

Speaking of how incredible the human mind is, I am so grateful to have the brain that I do. I know, by myself, I’m not that smart, but this brain I got up here is a lot more attentive and concise than I could ever rightly conceive of. I’ll write words in the correct context, but I couldn’t give you a definition of what they are. I just know them. Things like that I think are really cool.

It’s mostly genetics probably, but I have worked tirelessly to keep my mind strong. Part of this is because I have mental disorders, and my sanity is the only thing that keeps me psychologically intact. In this case, writing is definitely a life-saver. It’s great to read too, though, because I then have the opportunity to see what great things are in the mind of another person. Right on.

How great it would be if the entire world appreciated each other a little more, but I guess life’s a little bit more complicated than that. There are so many things that could happen that could mess up the methodical rhythm that is one going about his or her normal day, but through faith in something, there’s also more hope to be more productive in one’s endeavors than not.

I can imagine a guiding hand helping my brain to become stronger, because I sure as heck wouldn’t know where to start in increasing my intellectual capacity . . . I bet I’m not the only writer that is a willing slave to the blank page, an inviting, but ever-intimidating challenge, one that must be pursued relentlessly! Writing has a chokehold on me, because without it, there’s only one word for my fate: Irredeemable madness!