I have no problems.

Melissa and I grew up together. Our mothers were friends before we were born (she in February, I in May). We lived across the street, so we were close companions for the early years of our lives, competing over everything... who could ride her bike faster, who could play her Gameboy better, who had better food at her house, who played better basketball... you get the idea. Our friendship was fraught with tiny, pointless battles and born more out of convenience than any sincere regard for each other.

Somewhere between the ages of 10 and 14, I just... got sick of her. She kept making calls, but I quit returning them. I don't know why it hit me on one particular day; I don't remember if we had a fight, or if I felt betrayed, or if I were just being unreasonable. Either way, although we continued to speak when we saw each other (which happened a little more frequently once I transferred to Northeastern), the friendship was over.

Recently, she got pregnant -- which wouldn't be quite so bad if the father of the child hadn't left her, and wouldn't be too horrible if she had a place to live. Right now she's staying, only temporarily, with her father, and hoping to get a job at Sonic. Today, she had an extremely traumatic accident that didn't injure her at all, but killed the other woman. She's being charged with misdemeanor death. She's six months along, by the way, with no money.

After spending the last three hours with her, I realize... my depression lately has been ridiculous; I have no problems. I could fail every one of my classes this year and be a hundred times better off than I could be... but why are we so different? We grew up together; we lived on the same street; we spent our most formative years at each other's houses, in each other's company. But now I'm one of the elitist college queens, and the difference between my problems and hers is that I'm trying to make all A's... while she's trying to get enough food to survive.

Is this what CEOs feel for slave laborers? Is this what middle class America feels for the poor? Vague curiosity, peppered with distant concern... the shuddering question: why am I not you, and why are you not me?

Today I built something. That means I'm almost not a waste of oxygen. Except it was a predesigned CD rack from Wal-Mart... which means I am.

When I was little, I played with power tools. My dad was always building something, and I wanted to be like Dad, so he let me play with a little drill that was (gasp!) battery operated... it completely fascinated me. I made a wooden "doll" (by which I mean - two boards for legs, two boards for arms, a board for a torso, a board for a head, and a drawn-on face) and drilled things all the time.

Back to the present, in which I've been sporadically cleaning my room, a total war zone. I got back from AU, "unpacked" (i.e. threw stuff in my room, sans organization), packed for Germany, got back and "unpacked" again. Before I left for Deutschland, I cleaned out my closet and hauled out between eight and twelve big trash bags filled with either trash or things to give away. And it's still a wreck. Seriously... For days, you couldn't even see the floor.

All this wouldn't be so bad, except that I can't concentrate at all in a dirty room. At all. Even remotely. I twitch and dream of cleanness, for I am my daddy's daughter, and he is the twitchiest neat freak of all. So now I'm taking out as much crap as I can... I'm getting rid of a desk, a rolly cabinet-thing, two of those cheap white-and-clear plastic drawer sets, and possibly a rocking chair. My cabinet holds DVD cases, and one of my unpacked AU boxes holds CD cases, so I condensed them and got a pretty black CD/DVD rack that I had to assemble. When I was done, I felt like a wee little kid again. Should hammering and screwing remind me of being an eight-year-old?

I need a project. I've been at loose ends since I got back, but particularly today. Due to the demise of my friendship with Crystal, I have even less to do than usual. My dad, understanding this, has volunteered to help me paint my desperately-in-need-of-painting room and put up the curtain that usually separates the bed from the rest of the room. Yay! My inner interior decorator is giggling with glee... it's like finding a playground, hostilely removing the other children, and planting one's own flag.

Not that I'd ever do that... heh heh heh.

Where've the good times gone? All the stupid fun, and all that shit we've done...

One of my closest friendships died tonight.

I guess that's not accurate. The soul of this friendship died when I left for college, and I've been keeping it on life support, trying to ignore what was in front of my face for over a year. I'm sad... but I've been struggling with this for a year, and I can't feel the deep sense of loss that would have accompanied the demise, had it happened in October or November of last year.

I do find it rather ironic that it happened the day of a dentist appointment. This confirms so much.

There were good moments -- a lot of them, actually... and I'd like to remember them.

-Bug Club and other performances. We could improv together like no other actors I've seen. If she does go on to get her degree in acting, she'll be amazing.
-The bypass. There, my love for my Lumina was fully realized.
-Guardian. I couldn't have fleshed out the ideas without her, much less written them out.
-Wal-Mart. Yes, Wal-Mart.
-Hurricane Isabel. I can't believe I'm listing this as a good time, but we were good friends then, helping out each other's families as the city began to patch up the damages.
-Geometry tutoring: because z=46.
-Cemeteries. This needs no explanation.
-Midnight pizza & cheese sticks... I never said the good times were healthy.
-Packing & running for New Life Family Center, alias the church of exorcism that, unbelievably, helps the community.
-All-nighters in Guardian Care, and all the card games they entailed.
-Lifetime movies... when Blockbuster was just too expensive.
-My very first car chase!
-Van Helsing, Underworld, the original Dracula, and other such cheezy vampire movies.
-"Vampire," by Blindside; anything Tapping the Vein; anything with the windows down.
-Trips to Avon, hanging out under the pier, and cheating Dirty Dick's Crabhouse out of its dollar.
-Trips to Virginia and that funky ocean game at the arcade.
-Living, at least occasionally, for the moment.

I want to write the great American ghost story.

One of the houses in my neighborhood just couldn't keep tenants. People had been shuffling in and out of it for as long as I could remember. It was a corner house, tipping two sleepy little streets, with a high, brown-green crusted backyard fence and a worn-down shed... during one of the many periods in which the house was for sale, Melissa and I snuck in, got past the fence, and rooted through the shed examining the crap last family had left there. We all said it was haunted.

My love affair with all things spooky stretches back to early childhood. For years, the small cemetery on our property in Avon fascinated me; eventually I discovered the larger one next to it. At the time, my best friend and I had convinced ourselves that we could see flying horses and unicorns. I "found" a family of vampire flyaways, as we called them, living in the cemetery. (Years later, we both figured out we couldn't see them... but were still afraid the other could.)

Vampires, ghosts, and the places they play will always hold a special place in my twisted little heart. But how can I describe the thrill, the adrenaline, the nervous shoulder-shudder in a graveyard at two AM, the ripple of the moon over a headstone, the flutter of curtains in the window of an abandoned house? How can I document the chill of being chosen by a black cat darting across my path, the bleak creaking of an aging jewelry case, the yellow-paper decay of photographs of people long passed with sullen, stormy eyes that beg you to consider whether you have done them wrong? How can I convey my love for terror?

Originally, Guardian (my novel in progress, for the unacquainted heathens) was a dark, creepy vampire story about the corruption of innocents. Somewhere along the way it developed an unbelievably complex plot in which vampires are a given; the only characters that aren't vampires are slayers. Without the contrast provided by normal, innocent humans, vampires lose that creepy element I adore. I want to write a good, old-fashioned, spooky-as-hell ghost story, the kind in which the author just sits down to tell a story, without obsessing over how this character would realistically react or why that character didn't just see that [plot element here] would unfold.

I'm hoping to start on a good ghost story soon. I'm not sure how long it will be... more to the point, I'm not sure how long it'll be able to hold my attention. I fleshed out the beginnings of a supernatural crime-thriller, but I'm still trying to decide if it's too cliche, and usually if you have to ask... it is.

These things I know:
-I want vampires.
-I want my main character to be human.
-I don't want it to resemble Rice or Hamilton in ANY WAY. *twitches with hate*
-I want to enjoy writing it and reading it.
-I want to start soon, before my interest flutters off.

The essence of womanhood - dedicated to my girls. Yes, I just called you that.

During your lifespan, many people will try to explain their versions of feminism, whether you care or not. They will crusade for it; they will deride you for not supporting it (if applicable); they will deride you for supporting it (if applicable); their opinions will be diverse and often ridiculous. You will be told everything from "Men suck, [and should] grow a vagina" (credit where credit is due... I owe this one to Adam) to "Women are people too!" to something I should probably remember involving seventy-five cents and a dollar. However, I would like to advance my very own version, and you may accept it or reject it as you feel led.

Nothing annoys me more than being harassed. It's a pretty universal experience with an impressive range of emotions... fear, rage, annoyance, disgust, vague amusement. The Rookie's lot experience in the "A night at front" entry touched them all. Ordinarily, I laugh it off or amuse myself by mocking them relentlessly... i.e. the "COME DRINK WITH ME!" guy. (Unfortunately, I didn't know enough German to crush his soul.) Don't get me wrong; being hit on is flattering, but being harassed is totally different. There are very few opportunities, however, to really get even...

Today, while running errands for my mother (shut up! you WISH you were that cool!), I pulled up to a stoplight, one of the banes of my existence... my Lumina and I should be allowed to run free, untrammeled... heeeee. Tangent! There were two cars ahead of me, and two cars beside them. Therefore, the next car stopped just beside me.

This car held two hicks. I should admit now that I'm heavily prejudiced against hicks.

One was maybe 30-ish... wifebeater, opaque colored sunglasses, straggly stache, empty grin. The other was closer to my age, working the black T-shirt "But I'm an ANGSTY hick!" look. When they saw me, they both started laughing (giggling would not be inaccurate) and grinning, motioning at me and practically waving with glee. Ordinarily, I might have smiled back and been on my way... but today was no ordinary day... today I was not trapped in Germany without a getaway car.

When the light turned green I hit the gas and roared past them, processing their shared looks of shock as I smoothly changed lanes and cut them the hell off, unfortunately not in a literal sense, which I would have greatly preferred... if more people held a literal interpretation of that phrase we might be breeding fewer hick babies here.

So there's my philosophy on gender: "Don't hit on girls whose engines perform better than yours."

Yesterday I drove by the waterfront at sunset. It would have been beautiful... if not for these:

I apologize for the blurriness of the first one... I took it while driving.

It wasn't even dark yet... everyone knows you can't smoke your weed or drink your rum and coke (sadly, with this crowd, "coke" may not end in "a-cola"...) until the cover of darkness protects your tortured, angst-ridden, not-truly-understood alcoholic souls...

So many great quotes this weekend...

...But I can't remember them. This lapse in memory initially disappointed me, but I suppose it's for the best... perhaps my brain is forcing me to live in the moment. Besides, if I remember our conversations correctly, it's not the kind of thing you want to remember, per se... should one wear white or not?

Even if you think you understood that, you didn't. No... really. And you should be happy in your ignorance.

So, here's to weeks spent in the Outer Banks with best friends and mosquitos... and:

-Late night walks on the beach, with a low moon over the ocean and fireworks in the air.
-The fairgrounds and all that they entail: the Ferris wheel, the Spyder, and the roller coaster.
-Driving up and down the beach road while the family of said best friend tries to find a hotel.
-Boy Meets World.
-Lifetime movie mockery.
-Five days of (semi) veganism. Well, more like four. Hummus!
-Nostalgia... ah, the good old days.
-Summer movies and Messianic music.
-Knee driving... and the horrible conversations that always accompany it.

A night at front.

By "front," of course, I'm referring to the Waterfront, Elizabeth City's harbor, if you can call it that, which can be used for all kinds of recreational activities... For example, Dad and I put our boat in there; the town miscreants drink and smoke pot there. Whatever rubs your Buddha, I suppose.

I lived in Elizabeth City eighteen years without "chilling," to use the vernacular of the time, at "front," also to use the vernacular of the time. So, after my triumphant return from Germany, I allowed my good friend Crystal to talk me into going down there Thursday night. Crystal's friend, her boyfriend, her boyfriend's friend, and I took up our little corner of the lot leaning against or, in my case, sitting on our cars. I traded glances with some guy wearing a Jack Daniels shirt EXPRESSLY, I am convinced, to torture me. I met a bunch of Crystal's friends whom, if I didn't like, I at least didn't totally despise, and agreed to come back the following night.

That night was more boring, though, I left after about twenty minutes and drove around talking to Dave, who was trying to explain tortellini. I didn't want to waste gas, so I parked in the sports bar's lot (strike one) with my windows down (strike two) and my car off (strike three!). After a moment, some guys came out and started shouting at me. It went a little something like this:

Dave: I can't BELIEVE you don't know what tortellini is.
Kat: I'm from the South, Dave.
Idiots: Heeeyy, girrrrlll!
Kat: (on the phone) Uh-oh...
Dave: Do you know what ravioli is, at least?
Idiots: Heeeey! Come on out of the car! Get out of the car, girl!!
Kat: Uh... what?
Dave: You don't know what ravioli is?!
Kat: Of course I know what ravioli is... *frantically trying to put the car in reverse, before realizing it's not on... quickly turns it on*
Idiots: Heyyy, come onnn!
Dave: It's a little like ravio--
Kat: DAVE. There are some guys yelling at me. I'm a little distracted!
Dave: What?
Kat: *explains while rapidly driving out of the parking lot, then pauses* Oh, crap, they're following me!
Idiots: *prepare themselves to chase Kat out of the lot*
Kat: HAHAHA. That's right! You try and take my car! TRY IT! (I was out of the parking lot, up the road to the main street, and past the next stoplight before they were out of the lot.)

I went back to front to pick up Crystal, as promised, only to find two warring factions. Apparently Rodney (henceforth referred to as King Hick) had "beef" with Isaiah, because, swearing omitted: "Thet [beep] wuz tawlking [beep] about mah boy's cah, and yal dahn't dew thet!" There were two other more personal complaints about Isaiah... I think he muttered an insult to the King Hick under his breath, or something. Whatever.

Crystal, using her impressive presence of mind, stole King Hick's switchblade, which didn't take too much wind out of King Hick's sails. The two warring factions, half assembled around Isaiah, half around King Hick, were sending messengers back and forth... yes, messengers. Remember middle school, when you passed notes?

King Hick lost patience and stomped over, so Isaiah headed to someone's car, and King Hick jumped up on the picnic table and stared after him broodingly, while muttering "Yeah, THAT'S right!" I feelingly said, "Oh, that's hardcore, man. You jump up on that picnic table." King Hick yelled back, "What, thet's nawt tuff enuff fah yew?!" and took off after the car.

At this point, Crystal was ranting about how it was, not censored, "a bullshit fight, man, you don't start that fucking shit with my friends, man, that's bullshit" while sitting (also broodingly) on the picnic table King Hick had abandoned, staring at the action unfolding around Jessica's car (in which Isaiah had taken sanctuary). King Hick had planted himself behind the car so they couldn't back out, so some chick got out and started screaming about how he was immature... this did not wound King Hick's sensibilities.

Let me point something out here. These people are not heavily muscled 6'2" guys having a turf war. They're short little rednecks (at least one of whom has a "REDNECK" tattoo), the oldest of which is maybe 20, few of whom will ever graduate... and they think mud riding is a legitimate sport.

I started to pull out but stopped for Crystal, who had no other ride; as I tried to convince her to get in, a COP PULLED UP, blaring his siren and spinning his little lights.

This went a long way toward persuading Crystal to leave, so we escaped to the other cultural center... Wal-Mart. Movin' on up.

Just another night in Elizabeth City...