Free Writing

It was kind of awkward I'll have to admit.

I never thought I'd end up there in that stone cold, yet humbly furnished apartment. Walking up that staircase to the see the night sky was probably the best part.

Too much wine is never a good thing, and my friend and I found that out the hard way. There were too many issues with that night, and yet for some reason, we still thought it was O.K. to go there.

I wore a new white dress I had just bought at Victoria's Secret which managed to accomplish what anyone would want out of a Victoria's Secret dress. It looked how you think it looked I'm sure.

My friends and I decided to start the night out at Bacchus, never thinking we would be up until 6:30 A.M.

Over wine, we discussed our lives. It was a while since we had all really caught up. We played silly games like, "Kill him, Date him or Marry him."

Most of the guys mentioned I wanted to kill instead of marry... I found that to be strange. None of the guys I really wanted to marry anyway, or would never even consider.

There are too many guys who like to play games, and there are too many guys just looking for a girl to bite their bait. I wasn't in the mood for playing games and you'd think that would have stopped me from going out.

Games are what you have to play apparently to get a guy, unless their one of those really nice, overly sweet ones who will never bullshit you and always come off a little too strong. I'll admit, I like the ones who are impossible to get and are devilishly cunning and somewhat brute.

I was glad I went with my friend though, someone like me who doesn't entertain a waste of time.

However,

for some reason, there is something about one person that I can't seem to put my finger on.

I'm usually a good judge of character and against what everyone has told me, I still choose to see the good in him. I'd like to think that he is able to open up and show his true self, however, I'm not too sure he ever has.

At least to me. But who am I, really? I'm not anything, or at least not someone he would probably open up to. Why would he?

And yet, against my friends words and advice and even strangers, I really cannot let this go. It's probably the part of me that always wants to see the kindness in people, no matter how horrid they may actually be.

I hope I won't be disappointed that I wasted at least some energy in thinking that he could be nicer than he somewhat shows.

A truly talented soul, intelligent as anyone I've met here, and someone who is easy to talk to, I hope I'm making the right decision.

I'm probably putting too much thought into it.

Just saying...

Court, me?

I hate going to court. Having spent most of my time in court while in high school--I spent most of senior year skipping class and was on the verge of being a truant--I've developed a strong disliking for it. As I'm sure, most others have.

I made an illegal U- turn when I was 16 years old. 16 years old.

4 years later, I am summoned to court to appear since I have apparently failed to do so.

I was unaware I was supposed to appear. Apparently, at the time I was in Savannah for college. I'm surprised a warrant hadn't been out for my arrest.

My sometimes absent minded father told me last night at 11 p.m., "Oh yeah, Claire. You have to go to court tomorrow."

My father tends to forget about a lot of things before it's too late. True, it wasn't his responsibility, but he was living up to his expectations.

We never paid the ticket so I had to now endure this mess.

I was supposed to have a parent there with me, but since both work, I had to beg my older brother to come. PLEAD him to come.

Matthew's disposition is as sunny as an electric eel. "He's a pill," my grandmother used to say when describing him.

On the way there, he expressed his anger for having to stop what he was doing to accompany me to court,
which is in downtown Dallas.
Which is one of the most infuriating places to drive in.
Which is on a day it's 102 degrees outside.

Who knew so much could go wrong.

First while going through the required metal detector, Matthew had a pocket knife on his keys, so he was asked to leave and come back without it. He had to walk back to the car
which was parked 2 blocks away.
which he had to walk to in the blistering heat.

When he returned, he was even more surly than before.

Second, I had forgotten to wear a jacket in the courtroom and had on a tank top, so I was asked to leave until I covered my shoulders.

I began to panic because I didn't have anything else to wear and I had 2 minutes until court started. Matthew, being the great problem solver he is, decided to give me his Ralph Lauren pink polo,
which unfortunately he had nothing on underneath.
Which he had to walk back to the car and sit shirtless in after giving it to me.
Which now forced me to go to court guardian-less.

"People are going to think I'm a crack addict. Hurry up, Claire," he said behind his teeth.

I tucked his large polo into my skirt, rolled the sleeves and walked back in, while my brother sat shirtless in the car, that also had a knife in it.

At least if some crack addict decided to break in, he could have defended himself.

So, I walked back into the courtroom as the judge laughed looking at what I had now put on.

Thankfully the issue got dismissed considering the (expletive) U-turn took place 4 (expletive) years ago, and this whole day could have been avoided had my father just paid the ticket.

I hope I never have to go to court again.

Thank you, Matthew. Not many people would sit in the car shirtless in 102 degree heat, surrounded by homeless people, beggars and crack addicts.

As for the judge, thank you for dismissing my case.

Graduation- So what if I've had six glasses of champagne already?

Well, it's here. I'm finally home.
After slaving over finals for the last week in order to get them done early, I am now finished.

It feels great.

Other than Philip's graduation, which will be happening today, there have been several other festivities I've had to go to.

1. Brunch for Philip's friends.
This was fun. It was held at one of his friends houses around 11 a.m. yesterday and the food was to die for.
(That's always the best part for me with these things. Fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, watermelon and proscuitto, biscuits... mmm.)

2. Baccaleureatte
Basically a church service that was long and drawn out and of course, I wasn't dressed properly because I was under the assumption it was going to be something other than a church service.
I walked into the church wearing a neon pink, studded dress that was shorter cut and black gladiator heels. Among very conservative families, I stood out like a sore thumb.
That was embarrasing, however, I still love the dress and will continue to wear it.

3. Another party
After the baccaleureatte, another one of Philip's friends held a get-together at their house for cake and champagne. The plus side was that I got to drink for free, the down side was that I had to do it discreetly. I'm not 21 yet, and no one failed to remind me of that.

Lady: Claire, are you 21?!
Me: No, 'maam, I'm not. My parents don't mind though. It's just one glass. (Lie. It was actually the third.)
Lady: Oh well, we don't let our children drink.

Oh yeah, are those your kids sitting in the corner looking depressed as shit because everyone else is drinking but them? Sucks.

I walked away and downed my glass, while making my way toward the bar to get another.

4. Graduation Dinner
My family and our cousin's family, along with both sets of grandparents, aunts and uncles, all went out to Nick and Sams for steaks.
I ordered the $125 Surf and Turf with Philip. I figured I should make the best of it since I had been living off macaroni and cheese, pasta and pizza for the last two weeks in Savannah because I was broke and that's all I could afford.

It was worth it because the lobster was huge and the steak was cooked perfectly.
The bill came out to be a whopping $1,400.
My grandfather paid for it. I smiled and thanked him.

It's always a fun time when both of our families get together. We are very tightly knit, and my cousins are great. Caroline, my cousin, is in the same grade as Philip at E.S.D. so they'll be graduating together.

5. Graduation
This is today and currently we are all sitting around the living room drinking coffee and watching the Food Network. I have a dress that I just bought to wear to this function and hopefully it doesn't stand out as much as the neon pink one.
Who cares though, because these conservative assholes can all stick it.

"Oh, that's Claire. She's the artsy one. You know, she left E.S.D. to attend that Arts Magnet school. She's at some art college now, I don't really know which one. But what's the difference?"
Yeah, I honestly heard someone say that about me the other night.

Well, fuck you lady. Just because I didn't marry rich right out of high school and am deciding to make something of myself, which just so happens to be through an art form, doesn't mean I'm any lower than you are. We come from the same kind of families, and you know you wish you could wear this dress as well as I am right now. Too bad you can't.

Hopefully you can see why it was I had to get the hell out of that stiff ass school. I never really fit in, and unfortunately some of my classmates were at some of the functions last night because they too have siblings in Philip's class.

This explains the champagne drinking.

I tried to avoid them at all costs and will continue doing so.
Those people mean nothing to me now, and they can gossip all they want.

Screw them. I'm an artsy person and I sometimes like to wear neon pink inappropriatly to a church service and I also like to drink..

I'll be drinking tonight too at the next party...and the next.

In question

Counting down the hours of the day, I find myself often times worrying about certain

insignificant things more than those quirky quandaries of happy thoughts and brilliant epiphanies.

I can say that I'm a generally happy person who finds solitude and happiness in an evening sunset or morning rain however lately worry seems to be my bigger half.

And not just minor worries like the countless things I need to get done before the day is over,

or how I should have gotten more sleep last night. No.

These worries are not what I am speaking of.

Worries more like where I should go in life, if everything you work toward is really for nothing, or if turning down a great opportunity in dance was really the better choice to make.

Life can't be this hard.

Life shouldn't be this questioning.

However,

filling my mind so frequently with depressing, overanalyzed thoughts could be a divine intervention from God or something who is secretly, purposefully trying to crowd my mind so that I realize a bigger picture I'm not picking up on yet.

it's all i know...

I really regret having spent so much time on you.

I really do.

I cried tonight- and I'm surprised I'm admitting that- but I actually shed tears over you. An asshole who I cannot comprehend why I even truly care about you.

I regret being too nice of a person. I would rather beat someone up for hurting my friend than beating someone up for hurting me.

That's just always how I have been though. I put others before me always and forever. I don't do things for me. Ever.

I want my friends to be happy before I am. I want them to have things before I do. I want them to have a better time than I am having. If they're unhappy, I'm unhappy.

I can't figure out if this is a good quality or bad. My father used to always say that I put others first before myself too often. He never understood why I couldn't, just for once, for a single, solitary moment, put myself before others. That I could make sure I was happy before anyone else.

My father does the same thing though. Always a people pleaser,: all of my qualities come from him.

I inherited his well proportioned nose, his curly, nappy hair and his love for everything and everyone.

Why couldn't I be like my mom? Someone who doesn't people please and puts herself first. Someone who really doesn't care if her friend isn't O.K. because the most important thing is if she is O.K. I wish I were like her.

Why the hell did I think you were a good person?

Why in the world did I try so hard to see the good in you?

Why the fuck was I such an idiot?

Excuse my french, but come on. It has to get to a point eventually when I realize I am being taken for granted. There has to come a time where I can just stand up and say, "Stop. Leave me alone. You are a douche bag and I know it. So just walk away."

Please, there has to be the pivotal moment in my life where I can finally be a bitch and stand up to what I need; what I want and what I know needs to happen.

For now though, I will cower in the corner, writing in my journal, all the things I wish I could say to you. The curse words I could use on you. Unfortunately though, I am better with a pen. A pen is stronger than a sword and for now, I will just write out my issues with you because it's all I know how to do.

It's all I know.

playing with fact and fiction

I was running for my life. Thickets and thorns were scratching at my tired thighs and aching calves, painfully reminding me of what had just happened.

Whizzing by park benches and lamp posts I couldn't stop no matter how badly my lungs were shrinking. My heart was racing as fast as my feet.

Focus on breathing, in and out. In and out. I sounded like a donkey, hee hawing but my mind was what I wanted to stop.

I remember a dim lit candle and the spanish guitarist plucking away parts of his soul through the somber melodies and erratic fingering. Sitting in that dusty bar thinking this was a good idea for a while. I was too confident in that black dress, teasing my hair with my fingertips and trying not to look like I didn't belong in there.

The glass on the bar looked dewy and I remember I liked it. Slinking my fingers across the drops of condensation felt familiar tracing back to when I was a child and would sit at the windowsill of my families bungalow, drawing pictures on the window when it would rain. I felt alive when it rained and yet miraculously restless as my father droned on playing keys on the piano as he often did during the storms.

The guitarist took a break and the cliche, background bar music began to play. He was twenty minutes late and the cigarettes I had were too few now to continue waiting.

I am not a patient person and unless I have a cigarette to fill the time I become antsy and bothered. I was bothered all right and twenty minutes is too long to wait, especially for a guy.

"A woman should always be the late one. The man waits on you, not the other way around. If you get there before him, leave," my mother used to say to me as she would brush my curly hair out, trying to make it straight. She bought me my first hair straightener and told me to treat it as another appendage.

My unruly curly hair would make men nervous. Meditterranean and Arabic women with their wild hair made her fearful. They looked untamable, and I was supposed to be tamed.

I got up and left after thirty minutes of my legs falling asleep and my backside becoming numb. I was livid.

As I walked out of the bar and down the street, I was going to go home and watch another old movie again. I would have probably mixed it up a bit and watched something other than Casablanca this time.

Like a whiplash, my body was stopped and pulled around like some sort of jitterbug dance move, nearly dislocating my arm.

-"Give me your money." He was tall, rotund and hispanic, showcasing a toothy mouth topped off with a sparse "stache."

-"Please, let go of me and I'll give you what's in my purse. I don't have any cash but I can give you my credit cards."

He hesitated to let me out of his firm grip and I rubbed the skin on my arm where he had touched me. It felt rough like after an indian sunburn.

You should run for it, Claire. He's not armed and he's too big to keep up with you.

I didn't have much time to think, but my cleverness reminded me of Pseudolus and for a moment, just for an spec of time, I felt cunning and alive.

Throwing down an Old Navy Debit Card I kicked my black stilettos off and I ran through the alley all along the dirty pavement, nearly skinning off my callouses. I heard him yell something as though he planned to cut me off, but I was too fast for him and knew these streets all too well. My brothers and I used to map out this neighborhood when we would shoot our documentaries back when we were younger. I'm still young and I shouldn't have been in a place like that on this night. I realized I had all the time in the world to be old. You're only young for so long, and it's so hard to keep the memories. I cherished the ones I still had.

Running through the alleys and streets, passing lamp post after lamp post, trash bin after recycling bin, I couldn't stop until I got home.

My arm was throbbing and my shoulder kept clicking. After a mile or so I decided it was safe to stop. I called a cab to take me home. The ride back felt longer and I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

Exiting the cab and walking up to my house, I felt a wave of relief.

I sat on the steps and continued to catch my breath. I noticed my hair start to frizz and looked up at the cloudy night sky as I sniffed in the smell of the air. It was going to rain. It was going to rain right now.

As the drops fell from the sky, I lifted my face to catch the sweet dewy beads. I was getting cleansed by the rain. As I stood up to walk inside, I noticed my reflection in the window. My hair, now wet, was becoming curly again. I liked it better that way for once.

For once, I felt I was who I truly was. Untamed, unmarked and naturally curly.

past's misery still haunts me.

It would all be behind me at some point.

These people, these feelings. They would all somehow vanish one day and none of this would matter. If anything, the experience would make me stronger.

I couldn't see it then, in the cafeteria full of my classmates. The words on their tongues about what I had done. Like projectile vomit, they couldn't help it.

I wasn't concieted, it was the unfortunate truth and at that very moment in time, it was all that mattered. I couldn't believe who I had turned into or even worse, what I had just done.

I didn't blame them for talking about it. If I were them I would have done the same thing, and you know what? I would have been ruthless. Junior year was actually where it all started. Senior year would have played out perfectly had it not been for that prior year. Tracing it all back, I now realize it did all start with that one person.

He who ruined my life and knows it.

He who I tried so desperately to make love me and to fix.

He embodied pure evil. His hair was as black as oil and his eyes were black holes in outer space. I craved his re-assurance and his sporatic affectionate touch. I wanted him to be a better person because I needed him in my life. Actually, I needed the person I wanted him to be.

No one could help him and anyone who tried failed miserably, resulting in either leaving the school, starting intense therapy, or in my case, becoming obsessed.

His heart was blackened by his twisted words and negativity. He became the only thing my mind fixated on. My only thought.

I knew what I had gotten into back then, but my mind was too clouded by analyzing his every move, word and touch in order to save him. He is who started it all, and with his conniving, twisted tongue, sick personality and in-ability to love anyone, even himself, he would take my life down with him. All that I had worked for and built on, he would take it down in one clean stroke.

After four years, I feel like I can finally say what I have wanted to since that horrible day. That day that it all caught up to him in the sickest form. They finally stopped talking about me when it happened.

That's right assholes. He's the one you should have been talking about. He's the one who terrorized you and made a monster out of me.

Death knocked on his door, it lurked behind every corner, watching him. Waiting for him. His evilness had finally come to a stop, and I cringe when I say this, I really truly do. But, I wouldn't if I did not truly feel this way.

I've had time to think about it, assess what happened, and make a full circle zinger out of it: The day he died, I did not cry.

I did not close myself off to the world and pray for me to follow him.

I wanted to live. I needed to live without him.

Honestly, if he had not have died, I would have had to go first. It was me or him. I wasn't going out without a fight.

He knows, wherever he is, that it would have caught up to him eventually. He knows what he did to me, and he knows it will never be fixed.

Somewhere deep inside me, within the depths of my complex soul, there remains a black spot on my heart. The spot that he destroyed, the spot that he claimed. I will never get it back, and I still curse him for it.

So I'll say it, with confidence and a bit of hesitance: I do not mourn his death. Quite frankly I never did. After the funeral, I went to my room, shut my door and smiled. I was free from his grip. He could never harm me again.

I will never wish he still walked this earth. He did nothing but hurt me, and stopped at nothing to make me turn myself into him.

A case of the mondays

I can't wake up on Mondays. I just can't. Something in my brain sends my body a message saying, "Attention, Attention. Can I have every organ, muscle and nerves attention, please? Thank you. Today is monday people. You know what that means. Muscles, avoid moving at all costs. Do not let Claire out of bed! "

I cannot for the life of me get my ass out of my bed on mondays.

No other day faces this issue. Something in me knows when the beginning of the week is starting and it has set out to destroy me. No, really, it wants to destroy me.

I can't count the number of times I've been late to class, meetings I've missed, or breakfast's I've slept through.

Is there any way to get over this?

-I've tried going to bed early Sunday nights- but that just means I end up sleeping more hours than I need to.

-I've even tried staying up all night on Sunday, however I always seem to pass out in awkward positions, or uncomfortable places.

I woke up one monday morning in my desk chair with my head slammed right up against the key's on my laptop. My arms were flailed behind my back and my hair managed to get tangled up in some sort of shape resembling a funky fruit hat.

When did I fall asleep? I thought I was wide awake! I must have drank eight coffees and they didn't do shit! Nothing! Ahhhh.

Alarms don't work either. There is no sound in nature or any musical chords that will wake my ass up. None. Unless someone, I guess, has a blow horn to my ear.

Maybe there are pills that can solve this problem. Just maybe.

Scared to death.

"You can't tell me that you've never thought about dying, Jack."

"No, I really haven't."

"Seriously? I mean, I'll even admit..."

"Alright fine. I have, O.K.? And I'm fucking scared of it. It scares me to death. Well, I mean, you know. Not literally. I can't help not thinking about it. When I'm lying in bed at night, all alone, lying there in the dark after closing my eyes, I wonder if I'll wake up the next day. I wonder if people would miss me, or how they'd find me. Do you think I'd look happy or sad? I think I'd look terrified. Can you imagine, not waking up?"

After he said that, we called it a night. He opened the door of my car, exiting into the dim lit street, as he slammed the door, leaving me in the dark, cold, confines of my car.

I rolled down the windows as I raced home. The wind beat against my face as my hair tried desperately to stay in my ponytail.

I had to admit that I didn't think he'd open up like that. At least not on the third date. Aren't those things usually reserved for a later time? The darkness of his words attracted me to him though. He wasn't afraid to be deep and inquisitive. I needed someone like that compared to the pansies I had been dating up until then. Not one of them would ever really confront a question. You know? They'd dance around it and then just peep out a, "Lets change the subject, O.K.?"

But it wasn't O.K. I didn't want to change the subject. My entire life, I've never been afraid to ask questions, and yet, I can't help but think it's a major flaw with me. How can I get to know someone, know someone REALLY, if I am too scared to ask those kinds of things?

I guess the difference between me and a lot of people is that I don't find those kind of questions to be intrusive. I guess I should because death can be very personal to some. The way I see it though, is that death will be a new beginning.

I do believe in some sort of afterlife, considering my father has told me stories about people he's known while working in hospitals who have had near death experiences.

Every one of them say that it starts out with a bright light that comes toward them. A feeling of pure comfort and warmth succumbs them and then, someone speaks. "It's not your time. Turn back and wake up. Wake up now."

One time, I asked dad when I was very young if any of those people experienced something that wasn't as kind. If any of them didn't see a bright light, but rather flames and darkness. Perhaps, just maybe, alluding to hell?

He told me, "No," and to not think about it.

Thinking back, I know he was lying. He had to have been.

I called my father the other day because that question that ate at me when I was six years old came back. It haunted me in my sleep.

"What about the people who don't go to a good place? What about hell?"

My dad picked up on the third ring.

"Dad? Remember when I was little and you used to tell me those stories of people who had near death experiences?"

"Yes, Claire. I do."

"Well, there is something you never quite answered for me. Were there ever any people who experienced something terrifying?"

He paused for a long time. Almost two minutes of silence.

"Yes, Claire. There were people who did not see nice things. It was not a good place that they had entered in. They were uncomfortable and very hot. They were scared. But you can bet your ass that when they woke up, and got a second chance at it all, they changed completely."

No one spoke, until he asked, "Is that all?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Dad." I hung up the phone.

I was shaking, even though that had been the answer I was expecting.

I guess some questions, even though you know the answers, are better left unsaid.

smug smiles and a fire show

As he traipsed in the door of my unfurnished, one bedroom, peach colored apartment, his black shoes tracked mud all along my clean, vinyl kitchen floors.

Dressed appropriately for a gas technician: clad in worn tattered, light washed workers jeans, sporting assorted condiment stains, a gray T-shirt looking as though it had been through a number of washes that equaled the span of his lifetime, and all black tennis shoes, he carried a staged and insincere, pompous attitude with him that almost matched the smell of gas that was now overwhelming my kitchen.

His one job was to turn the pilot light on for my 35 year old, gas stove that I just unwillingly adopted. His job was not to flirt disgustingly and yap on for 10 minutes about the ho-hum details of his day.

"I've been doing this for a while now. You just sit nice and pretty little lady and watch me do my job. Don't worry, the gas smell will leave the air soon."

Yeah, aside from the gas, there's some hot air blowin' in here too.

I had my doubts immediately, but with a smile of missing front teeth and a hand gesture that resembled a gun, showcasing his dirt lined fingernails, I assumed he may have known what he was doing.

He hunkered down to the floor in front of the oven and lit a match with one crisp swipe. First, he would light the stove.

As his worn and grubby hands began lighting a second match to now light the oven pilot light, like a flash of lightening, once the match had lit, a billowing cushion of fire came swooshing out of the oven and extended a few inches out of it's perimeter, singeing quickly, but efficiently the hairs off of his ashy arm.

Whoa.

He muffled a light yelp and then with a hick-like chuckle that bubbled in the back of his throat, he widened his eyes to blink and process what had just happened.

I knew that smell of gas meant trouble.

His lips began to curl upward, back into that toothless grin that sent shivers up my spine.

This time, however, the grin wasn't backed with so much smug.

hair scare

I have learned to really hate the rain. The reason?

I have curly hair.

This means that I have my own personal meteorologist atop my head, never failing to remind me when the slightest bit of humidity is in the air. Not to mention the incredible amount of up-keep it demands. Heaven forbid my hair could be normal, and I could one day walk out of the shower and let it air dry to perfection.

Yeah, right. In an alternate universe perhaps.

The amount of product I use every day is enough to keep any hair product line in business. It's the curly headed people they are after. That's where they're getting all their money from.

Today while walking to class, I looked like Weird Al Yankovich. That, or Carrot Top. When I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror, I was scared. No, terrified.

If I saw that thing coming toward me I'd probably stop dead in my tracks, trying to determine whether it was an animal that died on top of their heads, or just an unfortunate human having a really bad hair day.

I have grown to accept my hair, however, on days like today, I have to surrender to it and give up. It wins the battle every time.

- I have tried pulling it into ponytails, but then I get some sort of fuzz that pokes out from all sides.

- I have also tried wearing hats, but I've found that my hair looks worse when I take the hat off than it did before.

I will never win the battle between myself and my hair. It has a mind of its own. I'll just have to learn to live in places where it never rains. Does a place like that even exist?

languages of love in a savannah bar

And then I spot him.

Tall and compulsively clad in his fleece vest with the collar of his bleach white, perfectly pressed button down shirt poking out ever so coyly. The way he moves projects an aura of aplomb I've never had. He sits down at the bar, letting his feet levitate a few inches above the dirty floor, occasionally brushing against it.

This is a boy I have secretly admired for two years now. We've never spoken. It's more of an, I know he exists, and I'm pretty sure he knows I do too. There are cigarette butts everywhere, and the girl sitting next to me just spilt her drink, managing to spill some atop my new suede sandals.

But I am un-fazed. Let your cigarette ashes burn me and your alcohol stain my clothes, for I will not care. Not now. Not while he is here, sitting a few feet away from me, unaware of my presence... for now. I'd rather it be that way for my tongue feels like it has swelled to the size of my foot, and an unusual amount of phlegm has formed in the back on my throat.

I realize that everyone in bars want to get their hands on something. Mine become occupied by cigarettes and rum and cokes.

Unfortunately for my friend, the guy she's been talking to wants to get his hands on her. I manage to break my attention away from, "him," and try to help her out.

Body language is not something I can read into well. I don't pick up on subtleties, only blatant gestures and when I walk up to her, I can't tell if she wants me interjecting or not.

Her body is facing him, however, not entirely, leaving an open space for me to walk into.

I hear her say, "Oh! You speak German too?"

He responds, "Wie, lang haben sie deutsches gesprochen?" (How long have you been speaking German?)

As he asks this, I tap her gently on the shoulder, making her aware of my presence.

Death stare.

"I'll be right back," he says, as he walks off to the bar.

She turns to me, rolls her eyes and says, "Claire! What. The. Hell. I liked him!"

"Well how was I supposed to know that?"

"I was speaking German!"

"Oh, psh. Right. The language of love. I forgot. Alright well fine. Sorry, I'll just go sit back down."

Never mind the fact that YOU dragged ME here tonight and swore to me that I'd have fun. Never mind that Friendship Rule #1 is to never leave a friend alone in a bar unless the friend has stated he or she is O.K. sitting by themselves, looking like social outcasts, prudes or deeply disturbed alcoholics.

I return to my seat and down my very girlie beverage. I hear a guy clearing his throat next to me. He taps me on the shoulder and says, "So, I have a bet going on with my friend here that your legs are better than your friends over there. I think yours are nicer."

I pleasantly smile and say, "Thank you," then excuse myself to the bathroom.

Do men really think lines like these work on girls? Not to mention he is over thirty five years old.

I run into my "friend" on the way to the bathroom and let out a, "Thanks, alot!" She's too occupied pretending she knows more than five words in German to hear me though.

As I walk out of the bathroom, I see HIM again. You know, the guy I have idolized since my first year in Savannah. The guy I will never really be able to talk to unless someone is holding me up, while fanning my face and feeding me witty, cute remarks.

"Ahhh, yes. About Marcel Proust, I find him to be quite fascinating."

( I don't know why, but for some reason I picture our first conversation played out in English accents, talking about authors, literature and theories of life.)

While fantasizing about our first conversation, as I often do, little do I realize it would be all too soon.

"Ouch!" He is standing in front of me and just stepped on my big toe.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry," he says. "Shit, I'm always doing stuff like that. Way to fucking go, dumbass! Oh, um, pardon my french," and lets out the most adorable laugh. He smiles as he patiently waits for me to respond.

At last, a language of love I can relate to.

to smoke or not to smoke?

If I had a dollar for how many times a day someone told me the risks of smoking cigarettes, or to put my cigarette out, I'd be rich. Or at least have enough money to gain back the dollars I've spent on Marlboro Lights for the last three years. Do these people think I don't know what my lungs must look like? That I've been conned into smoking by peer pressure and they feel the need to pull me out of this cloud of vulnerability, uncertainty and mindlessness? I am aware of the risks that come with smoking.

"You know, those cause lung cancer."

Really? I had no idea! I thought they were just bad for pregnant women.

"Second hand smoke kills."

Then kindly leave my presence.

When a close friend of mine sits me down to say, "Claire, you should think about cutting back," I will then take it to heart. Sit on it. Consider it. Dwell upon it. But to be told by the woman at the CVS checkout counter that cigarettes will kill me, I don't feel the need to be kind. Or, when I'm yelled at by the homeless man, sitting on a bench in the square outside of my apartment, that I had "better quit that stuff before it's too late." If anything, their quips make me feel like I'm some sort of idiot.

I am aware smoking kills. I can read the warning label. I can make my own decisions thank you. Just ring this baby up and I'll take my business elsewhere.

It's not like I haven't quit before, or at least tried to. I quit freshman year of college for a few months. I ran out of money and decided to spend it on more important things. Somehow, cigarettes became just as important and crept their way back in. My recent attempts have unfortunately failed me as well.

Attempt 1. New Years Resolution.

I never stick to these, and I'd like to meet someone who has. I envy you in that regard.

Attempt 2. Lent

I made a deal with myself to not smoke before 5 P.M. This worked for a while, but I found myself smoking more after 5 than I did before I made the stupid deal.

Attempt 3. I purchased a smoking cessation track on Itunes. Hypnosis Track For Those Who Wish to Stop Smoking.

First of all, the guy had a lisp so I couldn't focus on his words so much as the lack there of. Second of all, after listening to someone drone on about smoking for twenty minutes, the only thing I could think of was having a cigarette.

I could quit cold turkey, but I lack the willpower. Does that mean I'm weak? Am I not strong enough to tell myself, "No. Don't do it. You'll regret it later. I mean it! DON'T DO IT!"

Or maybe it's not that I can't, it's because I don't want to. Maybe my attempts have failed because I am not ready to quit. I like the act of smoking. Yes, that's it. I like it too much to let it go just yet. It's not the nicotine that I crave. I can go hours without smoking when I have to. For instance, on a plane, my body does not gyrate because of the lack of nicotine. I am strangely calm instead. I just like that hand to mouth fixation. Smoking has become part of who I am.

Hi, I'm Claire. I'm a smoker.

Now, I am not justifying cigarettes. (At least I don't mean to.) I do, of course, wish I had never started the filthy habit.

I am paying homage to smokers who do not want to be lectured every time they light up.

I'm sure you all mean well by your advice and words, however, I've grown tired of the constant reminders.

As I write this, I have since lit a cigarette. The person in the room with me just asked, "So, how many does that make today?"

Bite me.