Purgatory's End

I've been feeling weird recently. It's that feeling you get when you're in love with someone, and you know they're in love with you, too.

Only I'm not in love with anybody. Nobody that shares those feelings.

It's also weird because I feel like I'm getting depressed about not being with anyone. But it's not making itself known. Like you know somebody's watching you, and you know they know, but they keep hiding anyway. I know the depression is there, but the feeling itself just isn't coming out.

The giddy feeling I have may be from the idea of a short story I'm working on, although I have no idea why. If anything, it should only make me more depressed. If I ever finish the thing- assuming I ever actually start it- it'll be a bittersweet little love story, of sorts.

And I suppose I should be depressed because of other things, too. My dad's been diagnosed with depression, my sister is stupidly putting up with a husband I'd like very much like to shoot, work is going from shitty to shittier... and the real kicker: my mom may have breast cancer.

Yeah, fun times.

Isn't it weird when you call somebody, you get one sentence out, and they hang up on you?

AWA is over.

I seem to be running drastically low on reliable friends. Maybe two or three, at best. Don't get me wrong: I've never really had a large group of friends, but they at least reached the double digits. Now that number is dangerously close to infinite zero.

As I've said before, I tend to take my friendships seriously. I don't count you as a friend if I don't get along with you more than 80% of the time; incidentally, if I get along with you that often, then I get along with you 99% of the time (that's just how that goes). But those people aren't reliable anymore. Unbeknownst to themselves, quite a few of them are on the cusp of not being friends anymore (something I've never done by choice). It's annoying, to be honest.

But then, to be honest, I'm the only one who gives a shit. If I wasn't I wouldn't even have to write this. I would never have had such thoughts. Ifs and what-ifs, though, are just more annoyances I don't care to deal with.

"Friends" are starting to fit in that category, too.

    "You made it, Derek."
    "Solitaire!" I spun around, arms open, ready to give the psychic a long-overdue hug. "How did you-?"
    But I knew it instantly. The woman before me looked exactly like Solitaire, but different. Everything about her was just slightly off, just a little longer, a little thinner. Most importantly, though, were her eyes: they didn't burn with the same type of intensity. And, unlike Solitaire, there was no love in her expression.
    Oh, and she also had a gun pointed at my head.
    Smiling at me, she said, "You did quite well, Mr. Fayte, to have survived so long on your own. Especially when being tracked by someone who could predict your every move before you made it."
    My hopes were shattered. I had made it this far on Solitaire's memory, on the slim chances that, if I lived, I might be able to find her. But I had been fooling myself: this world of psychics and the supernatural was no place for a skeptic like me. But if I was the one who didn't believe- who couldn't understand or fully accept all the things that were happening- why was I still alive, while the two women closest to me were dead?
    And why was the ghost of one of them about to shoot me?
    "Who are you?" I demanded, unsure whether i was more angry, confused, or afraid.
    The woman circled closer to me, smiling at me with Solitaire's smile, staring with Solitaire's eyes. "Did you know," she said, "that your precious lover had three sisters and one brother, all of whom were clairvoyant? They were scattered all across the world; their mother's wish that they spread out, so their powers could help people everywhere. Solitaire, herself, was only aware of one of them."
    I didn't follow, nor was I too concerned; I needed o find a weapon, anything that could even the odds. It wasn't likely, since she had a gun, and this room was full of paper, but I had to try. "So what?"
    "I knew of them. I killed them all. Even Rachel."
    My body froze, numb. Had I heard correctly? "What?"
    Now that she knew she had my attention, her smile widened. "Her powers were the strongest, actually. She was older than Solitaire by a year, you know. Her visions always had a perfect clarity. But she couldn't control them; usually, they came to her as dreams. She would speak their contents in her sleep, but often didn't remember them the next day."
    It was true: Rachel had had a habit of talking in her sleep, but...
    "Ho do I know? Well, for one, I'm a psychic, too. The one Solitaire knew was chasing after you two. But unlike her, I could see my own future. That's how I knew to find you here.
    "The other reason is one you should have figured out already. Since you haven't, though, I'll just tell you: my name is Corsica Shear. I'm the oldest child of Diana Mundi, which makes me Solitaire and Rachel's big sister."

I've impressed myself with the story development I've done over the past few days for the as-of-yet unnamed rpg I'm working on. Many years ago, I made the transition from planning things out far in advance to doing a story as it came to me, and I've often wondered if it were noticeable in the product. But looking at this story, it gives the impression of a project that has been worked on and thought out for years. And while it's true that this began more than five years ago, none of what I'm writing now had even been thought of back then.

In fact, the few established events I created all that time ago have yet to be touched upon. They're still very sharp in my mind, but because they're established moments, there's no need to do any work on them. At best, I can move the story towards those moments, but the story heads in the appropriate directions without much in the way of manipulation.

But that's a good thing, right? it means the story is good enough that it'll remain cohesive without altering. And that's a promising sign so early on.

    Ashton Bryant. Twenty-six years old. Five foot ten, short black hair, black eyes.  One hundred sixty-five pounds. Self-proclaimed badass. Actually a nice guy at heart; just really good at pretending to be a badass. College dropout, twice. Currently and undercover cop. Actually just pretending to be an undercover cop; a reliable informant, in truth.
    That's me, in a nutshell. I was good at a million different things, but I never had any drive to see anything through. I had wanted to be a teacher at one point, a scientist at another, and a host of other things, as well. Eight years after high school, I had a job I could hardly stand as the assistant manager at a grocery store; not only was my boss annoying, but so were all the rest of my coworkers, and almost all of the customers who came in.
    On the other hand, I was waist deep in an investigation involving a gang who was possibly smuggling in some new drug or another from Cuba. My neighborhood was crappy enough as it was; we didn't need anything worse than crackheads running around the streets. I was too lazy to actually go through with being a cop, but I could do something, right?
    So I had a dead-end job by day, and a back alley job at night. It's not always an alley, but who cares about the details? Tonight, this night, it was, and that's what was important. Because it was barely safe for me to be there; why some elementary school-aged girl was there alone was beyond me. Why she was in the same alley where I would soon be transferring information on a truckload of drugs, when less than an hour ago, it had been near midnight, and raining like lead, was something I couldn't understand.
    But if there was one thing I did understand, it was that you don't leave such a child alone, crying in a dark, dangerous place.

There are a handful of little stories that have been popping into my head recently. The one in the last entry is the only one I've done any real sort of work on, though. (And, now that I'm writing about it, I can't think of any of the others.)

I've wanted to do a lot of writing recently. But I haven't had any real drive to do so. Does that ever happen to anybody else, or am I the only twisted one? I imagine it's just me. But I suppose I can work a little bit here and there until I get something done, right?

...right?

    "So, tell me about these dreams you've been having."
    "Well," I began, putting aside how odd it felt to be sitting in a psychiatrist's office, "they're really detailed. And, um, well... everybody in them always dies, except for the guy who... kills them."
    Not just a normal psychiatrist, though; the two of those that I'd been to thus far both thought I was either beyond help, or making up every word... possibly both. No, this time, I was visiting a dream psychiatrist. It sounded sketchy at best, but my options were running thin.
    She was probably in her early to mid-thirties, a pretty blonde woman with pale blue eyes who scribbled furiously whether one of us was speaking, or there was complete silence. "And this 'guy' isn't you?"
    I shook my head. "Nope."
    "Are they recurring? Have you had any of them more than once?"
    "Never," I told her. "The only thing that's the same is that people get killed by the man in these dreams."
    The placard on her desk read "Dr. Denise Granger, Phd." I hoped that those three letters at the end meant more this time than the previous two times. "Is there some plot? A story of some sort that continues from one dream to another?"
    "Nothing," I said, and my voice was followed by pen scratching rapidly across paper.
    "How long have you been having them?"
    After a few moments, I shrugged. "I'm not sure," I admitted. "I might have had one or two years ago, but it could've just been random dreams. I couldn't really remember them until my girlfriend woke me up in the middle of one, one night."
    "Did you tell her about the dreams?"
    "No. Actually, she told me I had been talking in my sleep. Only..."
    Dr. Granger's pen paused, waiting for me to finish. "Only?"
    "She said the voice I used wasn't like when a person normally sleep-talks. She said it sounded like someone else entirely, holding full conversations with somebody and everything. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time that she'd heard it that she decided to wake me." I sighed and shook my head. "When she described the things I was saying, it was exactly what the man from my dreams had said."
    Then pen was moving again; it sounded much faster than before. "Let's talk more about the content of the dreams. Tell me about this man who seems to be starring in them. is he anything like you? Is he the exact opposite? Does he have a name?"
    "Shaddix," I said. "I've heard people call him that. Most of the time, it was people he killed. But it seems more like an alias."
    "You heard?"
    I stared at the olive carpet, and saw last night's dream perfectly. "It's like one of those dreams where you're watching everything, and you know what's around the corner, but there's nothing you can do. I'm always right there, watching him, but I never say anything, or maybe I can't. I don't know if I've ever tried."

Is awesome. The Dark Knight is a spectacular movie- even at about 3 hours long. Many times I thought the end was coming and it didn't. Something else would shoot you in the face. Man, seriously, I truly believe that Heath outdid Jack Nicholson. I'm just sad that he'll never be able to reprise the role. 

Sometimes, you're inbetween having a good mood and a bad mood. Life is pleasant, but still an annoyance. For a while, the good and bad balance each other out better than you could have expected. But it's an uneasy truce. A few things in a row go right, and you're flying high. One too many things go wrong, and it's the pits of despair.

Oh, well. I've always been afraid of heights, anyway.

Oh, yeah.

See, I've had lots of friends and acquaintances over the years, but few that I could call good friends (maybe a handful or so). But Lana's friendship was one of a kind. I've never had as much in common with anybody in my life. Never shared so many of the same opinions and even life experiences. As we often said (she more often than I), we were like twins. Whether I loved her or not, she was the best friend I ever had.

But here's where the problems arise: it's a lose-lose situation for me right now. Lana has successfully managed to omit me from her life. This results in the first "lose": I miss out on a very good friend, and that sucks a lot. In the event that I manage to restart our friendship, however, I run the risk of there being more arguments like in the past: the second "lose". Then, there's always the very real potential that she will say no outright- well, what she does is more of a joking type thing, as if the very concept is laughable... it's something I think she relies on a little too much.

Then there's all the stuff I bought her that I never gave her. I do still have her address, and to be quite honest, I've been ready for a while to just send her the stuff and be done with it. But would that be right? I mean, I always refrained because I didn't want to cause her any trouble with her parents. But if we're not friends, should it matter? Would it ruin any chances I had of being her friend again?

I honestly don't know what to do. This wasn't even an issue until last week, for some odd reason. But now these thoughts plague me, and I haven't a clue how I should go about it. Not that I'm expecting help after posting this here...

It's strange, but I miss Lana. No, it's not because I want to be with her or anything. When it comes to matters that count, she's too immature for a relationship. At least for my tastes. But her friendship was one of a kind. I'll elaborate more after I get back from work.

That's the name of the story.


    The rain poured down as if to drown out the world. As if to wash us away.
    "Sorry," he said to me, in a voice so hoarse I hardly managed to make out the words. "Happy birthday."
    My birthday- St. Patrick's Day- haded ended almost five hours ago. But David was the type of person who believed that the next day didn't begin until the sun rose, or until you went to sleep and reopened your eyes. For him, it had still been my birthday. For him, there was a promise he had to keep.

    "He's lucky to be alive," the doctor had told me, after I'd broken all types of laws to hurry up and get to the hospital. "The paramedics' report says they managed to resuscitate him on the fifth attempt. Chances of success drop dramatically after each failed attempt, so he's got luck on his side."
    I'd seen the first four times. Fear had gripped my heart tighter with each time David didn't respond. I'd only managed to glimpse the fifth before the ambulance doors had closed.
    David's doctor, a tall, older man whose hair was entirely gray, had sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, his heart had stopped for a long time, and the lack of oxygen and blows to his head during the accident resulted in quite a bit of brain damage."
    "Okay, so what does that mean? What are you saying?" I hadn't been in the mood for technical bullshit; I'd just wanted David to be okay.
    "He's in a coma."


After one major rewrite and a few days of brainstorming, this is the beginning of part two. Although, to be honest, I've still got a lot of revision to do on the first part, I still don't know if this half will live up to the glory of the first.

Instead of recurring dreams, ever have a theme or action that's repeated in consecutive dreams? I get that a lot. Often, it's just a place- for instance, this one building I've never seen before in my life, but that I've been to in about 20+ different dreams over the years. In the one I had last night, there was something that had been going on in the past few dreams, but I can't remember it now.

Although I still have a good number of people on my friends list here, seems like very few people use livejournal anymore. I guess it's all about myspace and facebook; everything else seems to have fallen out of favor.I suppose I should just clean out the list; there's at least one person who still uses lj, but I don't think there's anybody else.

Speaking of which, it's funny how when you're trying to be serious about something, the person you're talking to just wants to make jokes. Even funnier when the serious subject happens to be your friendship with that person. Well, I mean "funny" in an ironic way. Sarcastic, even. More than anything, it's disappointing. When you've been friends with somebody for years, and suddenly they decide they're not going to talk to you, even while they tell you to your face that nothing's changed. Of course, given how often things like this happened with Lana, you'd think I would be used to it.

But it's not so much the act- which does bother me a good deal, as I take friendships fairly seriously, in a certain way- as the person who's taking the action. Or, in this case, the person who's taking inaction while feigning action or continued action. Can you honestly tell me that things are the same as they were a month ago? That you're acting the same? When you go from talking to somebody every day to not even getting them to answer their cellphone or so much as return a missed call, you wonder what's changed. And when they say nothing's changed, and joke around when you're trying to be serious, you wonder what your friendship has come to mean.

Doesn't seem like it means very much, in my opinion. But then, that's the way things always go for me. People mean more to me than I do to them. I wonder why that is...

I dunno what to call that story yet. "A Rainy Night in Georgia" was an idea, but it won't work. After I went to bed, I couldn't sleep, working out more of the story. Doesn't make it full-length by any definition of the word, but I think the ending is a little better this way. I'll get to work on it when I get home from work.

EDIT: There are some tense issues in the beginning that need to be addressed, and a little fleshing out to be done. The story is so awesome. As it stands, it takes up exactly four pages in Microsoft Word using Times New Roman 11pt font. Adding what I've come up with since finishing it will easily double that length, and it honestly won't have as good an ending. It'll still be good, but it won't be as spectacular. The second half is like a different story entirely. Kinda like FFX and FFX-2: both are good in their own right, but even though the latter is decent on its own, it can't quite live up to the standards set by its predecessor.

On a side note, it kinda freaked me out that it started raining today. Good thing Stacey's in New York and it's not her birthday.

    Huh? What is...? why am I...?
    Oh, I see... it's raining..
    I've always loved the rain... no, that's not true. When I was a kid, I hated it. It took me a while to tolerate and then understand it. I didn't come to love the rain until my early twenties, when the south was hit with a nasty drought.  Hey, that was only a few years ago; I'm making myself sound old... and I had loved the rain before the drought, anyway.
    Rain was always important, in a story. Most often, it was because someone had died...
    ... Or was dying...
    What was I doing in the rain, anyway? Was I trying to catch cold, just lying here?
    Wait... exactly where is "here" anyway? Last thing I remember, I was driving home after partying all night with Stacey. Going to clubs wasn't really my thing, but it was her twenty-first birthday, and she'd wanted to hit as many clubs as possible.

    We'd started with dinner at The Sun Dial, a rotating restaurant and bar atop the Westin hotel downtown. In about an hour, it would come full circle, and you could see all of downtown Atlanta in that time. The meal had been expensive, mostly because Stacey had ordered every expensive thing on the menu. The entire meal- including a dozen roses, a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon, tip, and tax- had run to just over five hundred and sixty dollars. I didn't make a lot of money, but treating my fianceé on her birthday was no problem.
    After that, we'd club-hopped all over the metro area, spending even more money, and drinking a little too much. At three different clubs, I'd almost had to fight people who'd gotten a little too friendly with Stacey; one guy even went as far as to flash a gun at me, at which point security had stepped forward and tossed him out.
    The partying had ended a full six hours and ten clubs later, at Phase One in Stone Mountain. It wasn't that we were tired, though; Stacey just wanted to return home for her "real" present: hour after hour of rough sex, just as we always ended every night on either of our birthdays. Of course, "night" was usually defined as "until sunrise, or one of us passes out." Tonight was going to be no different.
    From the club, it was about a forty-five minute drive home. Stacey, relaxed from all the alcohol and ready to be in bed already, had teased me the entire way, rubbing on my thighs and pressing her hands against my crotch. "Why don't we do it while you're driving?" she'd suggested. "Not like we haven't done it before."
    "Not when it's damp and I've been drinking," I'd said, doing my best to focus intently on the road ahead. "No way I'm gonna get you killed on your birthday."
    It was a good enough answer for her, but she still hadn't been able to resist playing with me while I drove. I hadn't minded, though; it made the dreary drive less monotonous, and I'd been pretty horny, too.
    That mood had gotten killed as we went past an accident that looked pretty serious.
    Not far from home, a two-lane road wound through heavy woods that were part of a wetlands wildlife reserve. At the lowest point on the road was a sharp turn approaching ninety degrees. I'd seen a few accidents here before: people who had tried taking the turn too fast and run off the road. As far as I knew, there hadn't been any fatalities, but the possibility was still there.
    This looked like one of those possible times.
    At my old job, I'd seen many accidents- or their aftereffects- at the intersection where we were located, and I had become pretty good at divining the origins of the accident. This one had had multiple causes: inclement weather, driving too fast, a power outage, and possibly some alcohol.
    I could easily see how it had happened: one car, an old pickup coming from the southern end of the road, had tried to cut the corner from the outside-in while going too fast. The driver was probably drunk. The other vehicle was a minivan driven by an out-of-towner- the Florida tag told me that much- and the driver had probably underestimated the severity of the turn. How neither had noticed the other's headlights was beyond me, but I imagined the pounding rain and local power outage had helped: there would normally have been a streetlight or two illuminating the curve, but the scene was pitch-black, and the few houses nearby were the same.
    The van had ended nose-first in a ditch, probably after spinning a time or two. From the looks of it, the occupants were probably okay, but had likely been shaken up quite a bit.
    As for the truck, it was upside down in an adjoining ditch, one whose sides were much steeper, and which usually carried more water than the other. In our headlights, we could see that a small crowd had gathered near it, and that was a very bad sign: whoever was in the truck had probably not been able to get out.
    I'd pulled my car over as best as I could while still illuminating the truck. "Stay here," I'd told Stacey, "in case some other genius comes flying through here." She'd nodded quickly, all intoxication and desire gone in this sobering situation.
    I'd jogged over to the scene, the rain beating down on me as thunder and lightning played their games overhead. "Did anybody call 911?" I'd shouted over the noises of nature.
    "We can't!" one soaked man had shouted back. "Phones and power are out, and cell phones don't get a signal down here!"
    "Shit," I'd grumbled, knowing that at least two of the three were true: so deep in the woods, a cell phone or even satellite signal was impossible to come by; a hard wire was the only way to go down here.
    Three or four people had been trying their best to lift the truck so that the driver could get out, but with such a heavy load and no firm footing, that had been an exercise in futility. But I'd understood: a life had hung in the balance, hinging on their actions. Who could just sit by and watch?
    I couldn't.
    The way the truck had come to rest, it was all but impossible to reach its doors, let alone open them. The entire vehicle was fairly well nestled into the ditch, and the muddy rainwater running through it had approached flash-flood levels, rising a few inches even as we'd stood there. As a matter of fact, the current had looked to be fast enough to simply sweep you away if you happened to fall into it.
    Wait. Maybe that was a good thing...
    "A hammer!" I'd yelled, an idea striking me as if it'd been the thunderbolt that had sparked overhead at the same time. "Somebody get me a hammer!"
    But there hadn't been time: as soon as someone had run off to go get one, the sound of rushing water had gotten louder. We'd all looked upstream to see a wall of water bearing down on the helpless vehicle and its trapped driver. Where it could possibly have come from was a mystery, but that had mattered less than the unknown condition of the person whose life I had decided to try and save.
    I'd jumped.
    Two feet of water had never seemed so deep or dangerous as that very moment. Already, I'd broken my nose- the first time I'd ever broken any bone- on forgotten granite rocks that lined the ditch's bottom, after which the current had ungently carried me under the front end of the upended pickup. I had been fortunate enough to have my arms out in front of me, as I had reached the somehow unshattered windshield entirely too quickly.
    Without the hammer, I had been left to improvise,  and that was where the previously hostile granite had become my friend: grabbing hold of one rock a little larger than my fist, I'd smashed it against the glass, and the brittle stuff had broken on the first blow.  Carried right along with the forceful, swift-moving water, I'd been pushed into the truck's cabin, which had miraculously been spared from much water until that point.
    "Get me out of here!" a desperate voice had pleaded as soon as I'd caught what balance I could in an upside-down truck. It was the voice of a boy, probably no older than sixteen or seventeen. It had brought back memories of high school, of hearing of kids his age dying in an accident before the first bell rang; one of them had been my sister's friend.
    Not this one, I'd thought. I won't let this one die.
    "Take a deep breath!" I'd told him as the air around us was rapidly being replaced with water, "then go out the window! Don't try to swim! Crawl! I'll push you!" In the dim light, he'd nodded more quickly than I'd thought humanly possible, and after gasping for a huge breath, he'd gone underwater. I'd followed immediately, supporting his push against the current. Suddenly his weight had become slack, and then my hands had felt fat rain instead of forceful water. An instant later, a big strong hand had gripped it and pulled me free.
    My lungs had ached, my entire body had screamed at me in pain; I'd ignored everything but my nose, which hurt most of all.
    "David!" Stacey had probably gotten out of the car after seeing me do something stupid, and now that I was safe, she'd all but tackled me in a fierce embrace. "You asshole! Don't you ever do that again!"
    I'd still been trying to catch my breath, not that being in such a tight hug was helping out much. I hadn't minded, though. I'd been happy to feel her arms around me. "I'm sorry," I'd said, and after she'd released me, I'd held her hand and started to walk across the street, back to my car. "I won't do it again."
    "Damn right, you won't!"
    Too much noise had drowned out the sound, but the sight was unmistakable: another vehicle had made its way toward us. It had seemed to be moving slow enough, and there was no way the driver couldn't see that this was the scene of an accident, so I had taken my time crossing; besides, I'd been tired, and I doubt I could have moved much faster anyway.
    But what I'd initially thought to be just more noise turned out to be something else altogether: more danger. Although it had looked as if this new car would slow down in time, its brakes had locked up, and its momentum had aimed it right at Stacey and me.
    Shock had set in. Not just for me, but for everyone.
    Not one of us had moved or made a sound: we hadn't been able to believe that an accident was about to occur, right here at the scene of an accident. The crisis was supposed to have been averted. Apparently, it had only been delayed.
    At what seemed like the last possible second, my senses had returned to me, and I'd pushed Stacey out clear of the careening car's path. My actions had the unfortunately side-effect of placing me square in front of the car.
    It had probably been doing more than forty miles an hour when it hit me.

    So that's where "here" is, I thought. I remembered.
    Belatedly, I realized that my eyes were open, but that I couldn't see anything. As soon as I was aware of the fact, however, my vision began to return to me. Sound was the same way. Both were blurry, unfocused at first. But they gradually became clearer. My mind, which had felt fuzzy, cleared, too.
    Stacey was standing over me. No, she was kneeling or... something. She cried, she screamed, at the top of her lungs. I could feel the weight of her body on top of mine, but I was in so much pain that I barely felt anything.
    My nose was no longer the only broken bone I'd ever had.
    It felt like most of them were shattered now. I was surprised when my arm did what I told it to. I wasn't even sure it was moving until I saw my hand stroke Stacey cheek. I felt like I had the strength of an infant.
    "See?" I said, not recognizing the croaking mess that was my own voice. "I told you I wouldn't let you die on your birthday."
    The range of expressions that crossed Stacey's face ran the gamut: anger, confusion, happiness; all of it was visible in a fraction of a second. "That's right." Her voice sounded little better than mine. Her eyes were red, raw from tears. "And this isn't a very good present, either."
    I tried to smile, and it hurt like hell. "Sorry. Will you take a raincheck?"
    "I've had enough of rain. I just wanna go home with you."
    "I think I meant indefinitely."
    Fear was Stacey's expression, then. Fear, and helplessness. It hurt more to see that than to try to move. Not that I could move.
    Sight and sound were failing me again, and I felt sleepy. Was my body supposed to be this cold? It felt like all the warmth was draining out of me. And why did I feel so sleepy?
    That's right, it was raining. And rain was always important in a story. Most often because somebody had died.
    Or was dying.
    Stacey was crying again, I knew. Shouting at me. I couldn't feel it, couldn't hear her, but I knew.
    "Sorry," I mumbled, or tried to. "Happy birthday."

I had a dream last night that I emailed Lana. Instead of her usual "I don't want to talk to you" tirade, where she invariably talks to me instead of ignoring me like you'd think she would, she actually did not respond at all. Then again, it was an email and not an IM, and the dream didn't go on for any matter of days; just a few minutes, a few isolated events that day. At some point, I also gave my eldest nephew a spanking, and got scolded because I might have made him bleed (which I wasn't anywhere close to doing).

This actually isn't my dream journal, but I didn't feel like putting it there. Oh, well.

Is it so hard to understand that you can't control what somebody else does? If you tell someone to leave you alone, what incentive- what reason at all- would they have to listen to you? "Because I say so," is useless. Who are you that your words should be heeded, your commands carried out? Even if you were the President, it wouldn't automatically mean that everybody should listen to you and do as you say; so if you're not even that far up the ladder, what are you really expecting?

Don't get me wrong. People should listen to other people, even if it's just listening. But asking for anything more than that is greedy... and a bit ignorant, to boot. Well, maybe not asking, but demanding certainly is.