All The Ugliness Inside

I'm gonna be 110% honest here. There's no point of writing my thoughts if I'm just gonna lie through all of them, mold them into what people wanna hear. I'm just gonna tell you what I think, maybe what I feel. And sometimes, that involves revealing some of my most intimate thoughts, the ones I hide under my pillow every night, the ones I run through my hands without really understanding them, before I toss them back under my pillow again.

Except sometimes, these thoughts are bulky, not at all smooth. And sometimes, when I slip them back under my pillow, I can still feel them underneath my conscious. And sometimes these same thoughts, with all their unwanted bulkiness, keep me up at night.

This is what I feel like it means to be one's own enemy.

And this? This is one of those thoughts.

To be honest, I'm not the greatest person in the world (shocking, I know). I'll let you copy my lecture notes, my homework, anything. I'll go sleepless worrying over something that's worrying you. I'll think of you often. I'll try my best to make you smile. I'll pray for you.

But honestly? I wouldn't take a bullet for you. I wouldn't catch a grenade for you. I wouldn't give my life up to save yours.

(My God, I can already feel the social glare burning holes through the back of my neck.)

It's selfish, I know. But I'm not gonna sit here and tell you, "Yeah, of course I'd die for you," when in reality, I have no intention of doing so.

Maybe that'll change later on. I hope it will change. I think I just haven't reached that level of Eman yet, where I can place someone else's life before mine.

And it bothers me. I'm not comfortable with myself for being this way, and that's the only thing that makes me think that hey, maybe there's still hope. Maybe one day I'll wake up and take a bullet for a stranger and be at peace with my decision. Because when you're uncomfortable with something, you'll jump at the first chance you get to change the situation.

Just keep this "shameless and selfish" blogger in your prayers.

*This only applies to people outside my immediate family circle (i.e., parents, brothers, or sisters). I'm comfortable with giving my life up to save one of theirs.

Dear Rhetoric Major

God, I hate you.

And in order for me to get my recommended 8 hours of sleep, I have to go to bed now.

I'll finish my hate-post later.

I HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR.

...AND I'M NOT THAT PARANOID.

Mini-Auto Biography

I figured I'd need one, y'know, for when I become famous and people start google-ing my name. :P

I was born in the bustling city of St. Petersburg, more specifically in Peterhof, the youngest of four daughters and I was raised a Grand Duchess. When I was eight years old, my father threw a grand ball to celebrate the 300th anniversary of Romanov rule. My grandmother was giving me a beautiful music box that sang a song we both knew so well, and a sparkling necklace that said "Together in Paris". Suddenly, a bad man (who wasn't invited to our grand ball)with a bat (the flying type) interrupted our party and cast a spell on my family. I know right? Mad rude…

I would hope that if you are a sane person reading this post, you know that I am in fact, not the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia. I just really liked the Disney movie.

I was actually born in Africa, in a place called the Pride Lands, to a King and his Queen. My birth meant that my Uncle Scar was second in line to take the throne and--

Okay, okay, I'll stop now.

I really was born in Africa though, but in Egypt. Cairo, to be more specific. We moved to the United States when I was two years old, and I don't remember much before the age of three. My first memory, actually, involved a yellow dress that I was very fond of wearing, and sitting on the beach in Sharm El-Sheikh with my parents and younger sister, who was still in diapers at the time. I remember being upset because I had dropped ice cream on my yellow dress.

But that's enough about toddler me.

The summer before sixth grade my parents decided that we'd move back to Egypt for a year, so they can go perform Hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage to Makkah. Why did we have to go to Egypt for that? Well, one of my aunts living in Egypt wasn't married at the time, and she would be able to look after us while my parents were away. Hajj occurs roughly during the middle of the school year, so we'd have to stay for the entire year.

The schooling system in Egypt is not the same one used in the United States, but it's very similar to the one used in the United Kingdom. Education was based on three phases: pre-primary, primary, preparatory, and secondary. Pre-primary is two years long, and it is synonymous to America's pre-school and kindergarten years. Then is primary, which is five years long; followed by preparatory, which is three years long; and finally secondary, which is also three years long. When telling someone what "grade" you were in, you'd say, "Preparatory Year 2," and so on. So you see, a student graduating from a school in Egypt would go to college a year earlier than a student graduating from a school in the U.S. It was just my luck that I had finished my five years of 'primary schooling' and I was placed in year 1 of preparatory school. When we returned to the United States, I took the entrance exam for Al-Ghazaly High School, and they placed me in eighth grade. And that's the story of how I "skipped a grade". It wasn't because I was some kind of super smart child prodigy; I was just in the right place at the right time, so to speak.

High school was whatever, I guess. I transferred to Marist High School, a catholic school in Bayonne, the summer before my junior year and I hated it with every fiber of my being. I was one of two of the first Muslim girl who wore the Hijab to enter that school, and I was the butt of everyone's racist jokes for a good month or two. I would come home every night and cry to my parents about how terrible my day at school was but they wouldn't hear it. So I trained myself not to care, and I found that if you do that long enough, you become numb. I had no friends, and I was the poster child for depression (not the clinical term, just the "I hate everything" term). I had a lot of free time, so I studied (I know, its sad, but I told you I was depressed). I'm not even gonna lie, I was pretty damn smart. And instead of people noticing me for "that thing I wear on my head", I started getting noticed for being "that smart girl from physics class". I was also taking studio art as an elective, and I guess I unearthed some hidden talent there too. My art teacher would display my work in the school hallways, and well, I was noticed for another "something else". Then one day, a group of girls came up to me during lunch and asked me if I wanted to sit at their table. And slowly, I made friends. And that's when people felt comfortable enough to ask me questions about my religion, rather than just make fun of it. And that's when I realized that in order to answer their questions, I had to answer my own first. I bought books about Islam, I asked questions, I searched. And that's when I started feeding my interest in giving Da'wah (literally, "summoning to a call").

Thinking back, I guess my junior and senior years were my golden years. I was smart, I had friends, I wasn't in love (which is always a good thing in my books; it's too distracting), and I was my parents' pride.

Someone once told me that in order for life to maintain its yin-yang balance, you couldn't have a good life all the time. When I first heard that, I thought to myself, "What nonsense." I was a high school senior, I had just gotten an interview with Yale, and I was on top of the world. Three years later, I can say that that person was right. I had a great childhood, and the first half of my adolescent years were even better.

I wish I can say the same about the second half.

College is…not what I had anticipated, to say the least. I hate NJIT, to say the least. I've developed anger issues, to say the least, and I swear I have never been more introverted than I am now.

Meh, there isn't much to say I guess, or to elaborate on, and I don't wanna write just another sob story. I'm just hoping my adulthood will be better, insha'Allah. Y'know, to go back to equilibrium. I just want my life to go back to normal. But 'normal' is a relative term, isn't it?

Lecture Hall Etiquette 101

We've all been there. Y'know, that one class you take where everyone else in the lecture hall is an absolute idiot. They're so lost and clueless, and I felt bad for them, so this is the list I made for them. Maybe we can have a movement dedicated to printing the list on handy little 3" x 5" index cards and hand them out around campus.

1. Do not, I repeat, DO FREAKING NOT, sit three rows from the front and play Tetris on an iTouch in teams of two, complete with a cheering squad and betters, while simultaneously having conversations about how many parties you've been to over the weekend or how many people "that girl" has hooked up with or how warm your socks are.
2. Do not kick the back of the seat of the person sitting in front of you and then act innocent when the person turns around and glares at you.
3. Do not have conversations with the Professor under your breath. Someone is probably sitting near you thinking something along the lines of, "Oh my God, HE CAN'T HEAR YOU, JUST SHUT UP."
4. Do not put your foot on the arm rest of the OCCUPIED seat in front of you. Yes, I understand that the person in front of you only uses the front half of the arm rest anyway, and that it's at the perfect level for you to rest your foot on, but don't do it, k?
5. Do not be that annoying frequent hand raiser that everyone wishes death upon.
6. Do not try to hit on the cute graduate student who is teaching the course. He's married, and you look retarded asking questions like, "Have you seen that video of the hamster playing piano? Oh my God, its so cute, I have to send it to you!" Sure, its adorable, but contrary to your belief, it has NOTHING to do with statistics.
7. Do not bring your five year old child to lecture. I can't believe I had to write that one.
8. Do not try to be a wiseass and answer rhetorical questions like, "We can't do that can we?" or "But who am I to judge?" or "We have to make more NAD+ don't we?"
9. Do not click that stupid pen of yours over and over again.
10. Do not make out during Power Point presentations when the lights are conveniently dimmed.

Thanks,

Management

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

I pulled my 1956 Volkswagen Kharmann Ghia off to the side of the road and turned the engine off. I left my headlights on though, because it was nearly 10PM and night was enveloping us with its dark cloak. Cecilia opened her door first and stepped out of the car. It was typical weather for September; scorching days and brisk cool nights. The night air felt refreshing and when I looked over at Cecelia, I know she was thinking just the same. Her brown eyes smiled at me and we walked side by side toward the lake.

Cecilia, or Cece as I used to call her, was still the same girl I remembered from North California High School. We had gone together our freshman and sophomore years, but then the summer before our junior year she had her braces removed, gained weight in all the right places, and began using a hair straightener. People started noticing her, and that's when our relationship started deteriorating. We broke up on a warm afternoon at a house party I wasn't invited to. I guess we both needed the break.

Now, four years, two relationships each, and three years of college later, and she looked exactly the same. Her blonde hair was shorter though, curling inwards slightly at the ends, and stopping just short of her jaw.

I imagined I still looked the same. Taller perhaps, but not much else. I was still the same thin and lanky kid with glasses, the kid who read too much even for his own good. But at least now my appreciation for books was rewarded. I loved my major, and I excelled at almost all my classes.

We followed the light from my headlights closer to the calm water of Lake Berryessa and I shifted the plastic bag with our Colas in it from one hand to the other as Cecelia picked a spot for us to sit. When we finally settled down, I handed her a can and opened my own.

"How are you Bryan?" she asked as she sipped her Cola.

I nodded. "M'alright. Fancy seeing you today. It's been what, four years?"

She smiled. "Yes, long time no talk. How's Pacific Union? You like it there, don'tcha?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. It's great actually."

"What is it you said you were studying?"

"Pre-Law, with history and psych."

"You always were the smarty pants," she said as she dug her sandals into the sand. "How's Amy doing?"

Amy was my girlfriend. She went to Pacific Union, too. "She's good." And because it was too short of an answer, I added, "She's into that whole Animal Rescue thing."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

We sit silently for a few minutes, each engulfed in their own thoughts. The best thing about it all was that it wasn't an elevator silence, where the awkward tenseness is thick enough to slice through with a butter knife. No, this was different. Comfortable almost.

I sip my Cola and look up at the sky. The stars were shining brilliantly tonight, and I laid down in the sand and linked my fingers behind my head. I always told myself if I hadn't been a pre-law major I'd be an astronomy major. The stars, I told myself, they were what fascinated me. They were dazzling, always. I used to wonder what their secret was.

"You still think about the starts, don’tcha?"

I laughed sheepishly. I still wonder what their secret is. "You ever hear the story of Andromeda?" I finally ask her.

She put her Cola down, pushed it down securely into it's own little sand cup-holder, and laid down a few feet away, her hands linked behind her head as well. "Tell me."

I watch the constellation, diamonds against an ebony velvet quilt, and begin the story. "She was a beautiful princess, born to King Cepheus of Ethiopia and his boastful queen, Cassiopeia. One day, Queen Cassiopeia foolishly bragged that she was more beautiful than Juno, who was queen of the Gods. When Juno found out, she was furious, and she asked her husband, King Neptune, to send a sea monster to ravage the Ethiopian coast. Cepheus was horrified and pleaded with Neptune to remove the curse on their Ethiopian seas. Neptune, of course, wouldn't listen; he told Cepheus that the only way Juno would be appeased was if Andromeda, the virgin princess of Ethiopia, was sacrificed to the sea monster. And so, Andromeda was dutifully chained to a rock, awaiting the jaws of the sea monster. Fortunately for her, Perseus--"

"Is that the guy who killed Medusa?"

"Yes, the very one. Matter of fact, Perseus was on his way back from killing Medusa when he saw Andromeda chained to the rock in the middle of the sea. And he fell in love with her. So he--"

"Bryan," Cecelia was sitting up on her elbows now, squinting curiously into the darkness. "There's a man in the trees over there."

I don't sit up, I continue watching the stars. "He's probably a picnicer, Cece."

"He seems a little odd."

"Many people do."

"And this is an odd hour for a picnic, don'tcha think?" she snapped.

"Cecilia, do you want to hear the rest of the story?" She glared at me. "I'll talk, and you keep your eyes on the man in the trees. Fair enough?"

She huffed at my indifference and sat up, brushing sand out of her hair. "Go on then. He fell in love with her."

Even in the darkness, I can see her eyes focused on the trees behind us.

"He did, and he asked her why she was chained to a rock. After much persisting on his part, she finally told him the name of her country, and her own name, and how her mother, a beautiful woman, was too confident in her beauty."

"Bryan, I can't find him. I don't know where he's gone."

"God, Cece. You say it like it’s a bad thing. Good riddance."

"I have a bad feeling about this, Bryan."

"So Perseus went to the King and Queen of Ethipia and made them an offer--"

"Bryan," Cece was suddenly inches away from me, her fingernails digging into my flesh. She squeezed my arm. "Bryan, he's wearing a mask," she squeaked. "And he's coming this way."

I bolted up, and sure enough, standing a few feet away from us was a man in a mask, with sunglasses on top.

"Oh my God," Cece stammered. "Oh my God, he's got a gun!"

And sure enough, sticking out of the waist band of his pleated trousers was a gun. I try to raise my hands in the universal sign of submission, which was a task in itself, as Cece was still attached to my right arm.

"What do you want?" I ask him, albeit a pointless question. I figured I already knew what he wanted; I had studied the criminal mind in several of my psychology classes and knew a thing or two. That gun, for instance? Probably no bullets. It was just a scare tactic.

"I need your help."

And then I laughed sheepishly.

"Listen Mac, you're welcome to what ever is in my pockets, but you'll only find seventy-five cents." He doesn't answer me, just moves closer. "I can't help you right now, but if you need help that badly, I can probably help you out in some other way maybe. There's no strings attached, I can write you a check or something, and we can both just--"

"Nah, time's runnin' out." I look at him questioningly. "I just broke out of Mountain Lodge Prison and I killed a security guard. They're lookin' for me."

I snicker silently. The man was about 5'11" and chunky, and Mountain Lodge was in Montana, which is almost 1,300 miles away from here. Not the survivor type. Plus, the prison break would have been on the news at least.

"Hey, man, I don't mean to blow your bluff or anything, but wouldn't you rather hijack my car and be stuck in a stealing charge rather than a homicide threat? Y'know?"

"Don't start playin' hero on me," he spits. "And don't you try to take the gun out of my hands neither. I seen the way you're eyeballin' it!" So I decide not to lunge for his gun just yet.

I sigh. "Y'know, you're really wasting you're time with us. I've got this much change and probably a billfold in my car, but that's it really."

He tossed a rope toward us and it landed at our feet. Where he got the rope from? I hadn't the slightest idea.

"Girl, tie him up," he orders. "I'd feel much better if you were tied up."

I put my hands behind my back and look at Cece as she ties the rope around my wrists, binding them together. "You know, I think I can get that gun," I whispered to her. Her head snaps up and her fearful eyes say no, that it's a bad idea. And I figured that since there were two lives at stake here, and not just my own, I wouldn't try to get his gun.

After Cece had finished putting a few loose knots on me, he walked over and inspected her work. He snarled something unintelligible about her being an idiot girl and he tightened the knots. Then he tied up Cece similarly, and I could hear her sobbing softly.

"Okay, lay down," he says to me as he removes his mask and sunglasses. "I've got her tied up."

"Aw, c'mon man, don't make us lay down! We could be here for hours!"

"Get down!"

"We could freeze to death, dammit!"

"I SAID GET DOWN RIGHT NOW!"

And so he grabs Cece first and pushes her onto her stomach in the sand and binds her ankles. I look at him carefully for the first time all night. He was two inches shorter than me, but he probably had a good fifty to sixty pounds on me. His hair was dark brown and disheveled from when he pulled his mask off. His clothes weren't expensive, I noted. A navy blue windbreaker that was zipped up at the front, over pleated pants. He looks at me.

"I can fix this," I begin, my eyes serious. He grabs my arm. "I can help you!" I try to shout, but I don't finish the sentence. I eat a mouthful of sand instead as he pushes me into the sand and binds my ankles tightly.

"Do you have bullets in there?" I ask him, spitting sand. I can't see his face, I can barely see anything at all, but seeing didn't matter just then. It was what I heard. I heard the dull sound of a piece of metal hit the sand, and the sound of metal against metal as more bullets fell into the sand beside my head as he emptied out his clip, letting them fall to the ground as he laughed. I could see the bullets laying in the sand now and my breath caught in my throat. This monster was going to kill us.

And then it wasn't about seeing, or hearing.

It's what I felt. 

I felt a sharp pain shoot up my spine and I cried out. And then again, and again, and again, and I felt a sharp sensation in my back, under my shoulder. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe right, like someone had deflated one of my lungs. And that's when I heard Cece screaming for him to stop, and surprisingly, the sharp pain ceased. And that's when Cece stopped screaming and started shrieking. I didn't know what was going on, so I turned my head toward her to see what was happening, and that's when I saw him stabbing her repeatedly. I tried to scream out, but my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips were dry. My voice was hoarse and I couldn't speak. I watched him stab Cecilia seven times, I counted. And then he tossed his knife aside like a toddler tosses an unwanted toy and he put his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a few seconds admiring his work no doubt, and then turned around and walked away.

He left us for dead.

I hear myself yelling, "Help!" before I knew what I was doing. Cece was awfully quite. "Cece! Cecilia!" I roll over on my side, ignoring the searing pain that runs up my spine, and give her my back. "Cece, I need you to untie me. I can get us out of here, please Cecilia."

"I can't," she whispers, and her voice shakes me. I put my head down on the sand and stay quiet. I hadn't given up just yet. My heart rate was racing my mind, and I still couldn't breathe right. Thinking was a challenge when I was too busy concentrating on taking in oxygen, and suddenly I was remembering Robert Collier. He had once said, "As fast as each opportunity presents itself, use it!" 

That's it. I was just waiting for an opportunity. I started seeing, not just looking, and I noticed that from the way my head was tilted, I could see the lake. And through the thickness of the night, I could see the lights of tug boats headed to shore. 

"No matter how tiny an opportunity it may be, use it," I whisper, echoing Collier. One boat in particular is closer to us than the rest. I raise my head and shout, "Help! HELP US! HELP!" But the boat doesn't stop.

Time passes by, seconds blending into minutes, phasing into hours, and another boat passes by, this one a little slower, and I cry out for help. My heart is in my throat, and I can't seem to swallow it down, and I want to cry but I can't, because I can't breathe right, and my God, we were gonna die. We were gonna die.

But then the boat's motor turns off and the night is strangely silent. "Help us! We've been attacked!" I yell. I see a figure stand up in the boat. "HELP US! PLEASE!"

"Is he still there?" The man shouts back.

"No, he's gone! Just help us! PLEASE! My friend, she's hurt badly!" Truth is, I don't know if he's gone, but I didn't care. The worst was already happening.

And I get no response. So I roll over onto my back and stare up at the stars, and they shine on. And suddenly I hate them. I hate them so much. And I start crying. Not softly, no. I bawl and it doesn't matter to me that I can't breathe anymore. I can't remember the last time I cried, but it feels so good right now, to just let my warm tears bathe my scratched up face. And when I finally stop crying and regain my breath sounds, I stare at the stars, because they were still blatantly shining. They shone on while Cece and I got stabbed, they shone on while I called out for help from a world that didn't care, they shone on as I cried, and they'd keep shining while I died.

So I closed my eyes against them.

And I whispered my last dying prayer.

"What happened to Andromeda?" Cece asks, her voice in a barely audible whisper. I keep my eyes shut tightly and I ignore her. I don't want to hear her dying. I don't want her voice to be the last thing I hear before I die.

I don't want to be the last person she talks to before she dies.

And because I can't stand her question echoing in my ears, in my head, and in my conscious, I answer her.

"Perseus made her parents an offer. He told them he'd kill the sea monster in exchange for Andromeda's hand in marriage. And they agreed. So he killed the monster and Andromeda is freed. The two joyously marry and they lived happily ever after." I pause for a minute, thinking. Then I continue slowly,"Andromeda is represented in the sky as the figure of a woman with her arms outstretched and chained at the wrists."

Cece is quiet for a few minutes, and then she speaks again. "Bryan, I think I can try untying you now."

And she reaches over and I feel her freezing fingers picking at the rope binding my hands.

And after what seems like hours, my hands are free.

I untie my ankles and then untie Cece, trying my best to ignore the numbness I feel. "Stay here," I say to her. "I'll go find help." She doesn't move, doesn't speak. "Cece!"

"I'm here."

"I'll come back for you, I promise."

So I push myself up and my legs don't move the way I want them to. I try to focus, but after twenty feet, I have to lay down and breathe. I count to fifty and try to get up, but decide maybe I can crawl and cover more distance that way. I search blindly for my headlights. They were supposed to be on. My vision is a little cloudy around the edges so I stop and count to fifty. Twice. I focus on breathing. I can see the road from where I am in the sand and I wonder what time it is. My alarm clock is going off, I can hear it. I frown, because today's Saturday. Or is it Sunday? Will someone silence that damn alarm? I can't seem to find the snooze button. Where is my flashlight?

They were supposed to be on.

But its not my alarm clock going off. Somehow, I'm laying in the sand by a phone stand, a few feet away from the road, and I assume I crawled there. The phone is hanging off its hook and the dial tone is beeping in my ear. Is the dial tone always that loud? I'll have to check it out when I wake up.

But I feel like I shouldn't be sleeping. And I can't see very well, there's all this darkness interrupting me. And my vision is hazy. Why am I so tired? Something…something was supposed to be on.

I wonder if I'm dreaming.

I see a car parked on the other side of the road. It's white and it has something scribbled on it in black marker.

And that's when it all comes rushing back. That's my car. My headlights are smashed.

They were supposed to be on.

And so I wonder...

What happens when you find the light at the end of the tunnel? Only someone had taken a bat to it?

The Cheshire Cat Moon

It was 1:40AM and I was making my way down to the security office at St. Joe's. My shift was supposed to be over at 2:00AM but it was a Friday night and the attending physician decided to let me go 20 minutes early. I had my car key in my hand, holding the bow in my palm with the blade sticking out between my index and middle fingers. Sure, it's a strange way to hold a car key, but the hospital was practically empty (except for the patients and physicians of course, and the occasional janitor) and I'm paranoid, and I had read about the damage a key can do to a person's eyes. There's a Self Defense 101 lesson for you, free of charge.

So anyway, I get to the security office and peek over the desk. It wasn't a properly lit area; the only source of light was coming from a lamp on the desk. The security officer on duty was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. He was facing a corner where a blue light shone on his face. TV, I assumed. He saw me and sat up, turned the TV off.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I need a security escort to my car."

"Where are you parked?"

"Overflow lot."

"Overflow," he repeated as he pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. He glanced casually at the larger TV to his left, the screen of which was split into four sub-screens, each showing a different section of the hospital. He picked up his phone and dialed a four digit number. "Yeah, I need a 1308 to overflow." The person on the other end spoke, and the security guard answered, "When is she coming back? ...Okay…Yeah, I'll let her know." He hung up and looked at me. "Can you wait until 2AM? I'm the only one on duty here, and the other security guard is at the front desk covering for the receptionist until she comes back from her break. She should be back around 2."

So much for getting out early. "I'll wait."

The security guard nodded and glanced at the large TV screen again. "There's a bench right there if you want to sit down," he said, motioning vaguely in its general direction. I absently run my thumb across the teeth of the key in my hand as I debated this in my head. Stay in the security office, or in the hallway on the bench? Which is safer? Well, the security guard was a little on the chubby side, and although he was sitting down, I was pretty sure he was a good six inches shorter than I am. Moreover, his hair was graying at the temples, and he looked old enough to be someone's dad. Best-worst case scenario? A psych patient walks in with a pen (which does plenty of damage, mind you), Security Dad ducks behind his metal desk and I run like hell in the opposite direction. That being said, I guessed it didn't make much of difference where I waited; either way it was an every-man-for-himself situation. So I decided to wait on the bench a few yards down the hallway. At least I had phone service there; the security office was a dead zone (kinda ironic, huh?).

I checked my inbox. No new texts. Well, yeah, its 2AM, maybe everyone's asleep. I checked facebook. No new notifications. Okay, so maybe no one's on facebook now. I checked my mailbox. No new e-mail messages. Okay, so maybe-- Alright, alright, so maybe no one loves me. But just in case, I check facebook again. Okay, for sure, no one loves me.

A few Brick Breaker games later and my peripheral vision detects movement. I snap my head up and hold my car key tightly. Its only Security Dad. I scold myself for being a paranoid baby. Then I scold myself for nearly pissing my pants over nothing. Then I scold myself because I need to stop having conversations with myself, dammit! STOP IT, SELF.

"I'll walk you out to your car, miss," he says from where he's standing. I nod and gather my bag and walk a few strides behind him toward the exit. The first thing I notice when we get outside is the sky. It's so clear, with no evidence of the rain it had poured earlier. The second thing I notice is the moon.

It's the Cheshire Cat Moon! The real one, not the sideway one, like this: 

Or upside down one, like this:

No, this was the real, legit one.

Perfect.

I suddenly get this need to share it with someone. I look around. Just me and Security Dad. But I don't care, this is The Cheshire Cat Moon, and I'm sharing it dammit!

"You ever hear of the Cheshire Cat?" I ask him, walking a little faster to match his stride. For a short man, he walked pretty fast. Or maybe I just walk slow.

He looks a little caught-off-guard, like he wasn't expecting a conversation, and I secretly smile smugly. He probably thought this was gonna be a quick and quiet walk to over flow lot, but just his luck he got stuck with my annoying self.

"The what?" he asks.

"The Cheshire Cat," I repeat. "You know, the cat from Alice in Wonderland? You ever see that movie?"

His brows are knit together in confusion and he looks at me. I don't say anything, I just point at the moon. He looks in the direction I'm pointing at and the furrows in his eyebrows and in his forehead smooth out. "Ohhhhhhh!" he says, and he starts laughing. "I seen that movie with my kids!" He laughs again and keeps looking at the moon. "The cat that disappears, huh?"

I nod with a grin. "Yup, that's The Cheshire Cat Moon. Y'know, 'cause it looks like--"

"The cat's smile, right?"

"Exactly."

The rest of the walk was pretty quiet, except for one or two comments about the weather, but I didn't care. I saw The Cheshire Cat Moon and so did Security Dad, and maybe he'll go home and tell his kids about it.