Slytherin Pride.

So way back in September, wait, maybe I should start a little bit earlier. So way back in August, I was one of the lucky few one day to find a Magic Quill and grant me the chance to be allowed into Pottermore early.
And then, the last week of September my account was activated and I was granted access as a Beta tester to the sight.

I have long been meaning to post something about Pottermore for ages but just haven't had the time to, or really had much to say that I haven't said on Facebook already. But I thought being a Beta tester was worth blogging about.

So what is there to say? For one thing, the journey through the book goes by very quickly, it's meant for preteens and under, so the difficulty level isn't there. There also isn't too much to do in a way of interacting with the book. Pottermore was advertised as an "interactive read" but really all you do is glide your mouse over things and watch them do stuff. You can do everything in an afternoon basically.

Now, does that make Pottermore oversold? Heavens no. The extra material that JKR provides is worth it alone. Especially the back story of McGonagall. That part alone was worth sitting at a computer desk for an hour waiting for the clue. And then there's the sorting. Everyone was talking about the sorting, and if you're like me: a life long Potter fan, who has long ago associated herself with a House, you have many hopes going into it.

If you want to read about my actual sorting, click here: Slytherin Sorting

Honestly, there is really no way you can cheat here. JKR did a really good job of picking questions and answers that could correspond to any House. Everyone has taken an online quiz where there's only 4 answers and each answer is easily matched with the House. But not here. There are seven questions you are asked out of 200. I personally was hoping for a Hat Stall, but I should just shut up and be happy that I was sorted into Slytherin.

It's funny, I remember when I was first reading the books way back in 3rd grade or so, I wanted to be a Gryffindor so bad. Of course I did! That was Harry's House. But no way, I am a true Slytherin. Especially if JKR says so. I might blog more about Pottermore later, but these are just my first feelings of the site.

I really can't wait for the books to become digital, and I can't wait until COS is unlocked. But right now, I'm just going to enjoy the "small" population of 600,000 or so students. Because the school is going to be alot more crowded---and by that I mean "purple screen of death"--when they open the site to the public.

Funny how life is sometimes...

So Blogger has a new setup as far as your Dashboard is concerned, and I love it. As a blogger, you're always curious as to how many views you get, and who's viewing what. And what I found to be a hilarious is, it all depends on what my title of my blog says. My most popular posts are my "RR" posts, of course. But what really surprises me, are my Supernatural reviews are really popular too, and anything that has a really interesting title, like I said before. One has 70 views and that was my short story, the second most popular, was with 48 and it was funny, cause that was the last SN review blog I did. Kind of random.

So I was clicking through some of my more popular titles, and came across one I did just over a year ago. It was about math...ergh...and I wasn't feeling too hot about my life. It sucked last year, to be blunt and honest. I knew what I wanted so badly to do with my life, and math was weighing me down harder than those cement boots.

It, sucked!!!

Here's the post in question: Tired

And I sat back and thought about how I feel now. Only a few days later to the year, and I feel great. Is my life perfect? No. Are my art Professors the best ever? Definitely not. But I am doing miles and miles better now at this time than I was last year. And in that post I was seriously considering an art degree. Really, I don't know why I didn't just go with one last year. Looking back it would have saved me loooooooooooads of pain and hassle. But hey, 20-20 vision is only in hindsight.


I should just be happy with where I am now. And that the hardest things in my life right now, are designing webpages and color matching, instead of those damn derivatives. Really, they were created straight from the bowls of hell.

Thinking about my numbers, this blog probably won't get the 70 or 48, but that's the brilliance of a blog, you can make anything you feel like, public, and people can look at it, or completely ignore it, and no one will care.

Just a little rant...

LOL...is there really such a thing?

There seems to be a strange trend in popular culture fandom these days. And the only way I can really describe it, is being a fan-ist. A word that I just made up referring to one set of fans judging another set for being fans of something the former fans find to be crap.

Wow, did that make any sense?

Anyways, I am a person who loves a lot of things. You won't find me one camp. If you need proof of that, just look at my music, I have country, classic rock, pop, soundtracks from just about every movie AND TV show. The pop is anything from Ke$ha to Katy Perry, and the rock from Journey to Metallica, soundtracks from Twilight to Lord of the Rings.

So as you can see, I have a broad spectrum of loves, which means I mingle with people who love the things I love.

Which leads to me to my point. I have been a devout fan of Harry Potter from the beginning, grew up with  him. Literally. So I was there when Harry Potter was making the rounds of all the religious groups calling it "devil worshiping paraphernalia." Did that keep me from the reading the books? No. Did it bother me at all? No. But I do know people who were affected, and who stopped reading them because of these people.

Fast forward about ten years later, and now the Twilight books have become huge. And yes, I am a fan of those too. They reminded me of why reading is fun. Until I read the first book, I hadn't read anything for pleasure in years. Ever since I entered high school. And when I opened up Twilight, and remembered that reading is something I do enjoy very much, I formed a pretty personal connection with those books. Now, are they great art? No. Are they even what can be called literature? No. But are they a fun way to escape at the end of the day? Hell yes. I still turn to them for a bit of escapism. And will probably for a long time.

So, to my real point. I have been noticing a lot of HP fans really degrading Twilight fans. And that makes no sense to me. First of all, why do you care that someone is a fan of something? It hurts you in no way. And why, since HP fans went through the same thing a long time ago, would you put someone through that? I hated it. And for this reason, because most of the haters have never read the books themselves.

How do you get to form a valid opinion, and then JUDGE someone based on something that you have no prior knowledge of?
It really shocks me, and angers me. It was in high school where I finally decided to stop caring what other people think. So you can assume I'm some air-headed  twit who believes vampires sparkle all you want. But it won't stop me from loving something innocent, and fun.
And to those HP fans who know nothing about the books, shame on you. You should know how that feels.

Wow, sorry. I just had some flashbacks as I was typing this. Stirred up some lost feelings. LOL.

All in all these HP fans are probably too young to have been there when the books topped the "Banned Books List." So they don't really know what they're doing.  But still. Let people love what they love. And for goodness sakes just go back to your circles and debate which House is better. And I will happily sit in the center being a huge fan of both series.

Another excerpt from "Rubberboots."

You may recall in post I did awhile ago, it was mainly about Pottermore and my Financial Aid, that I talked about a certain incident that happened at the OSU dairy. I didn't say much about it because it was a really long story. But here is the full story. And my thoughts and feelings about what went down. It was kind of nice to get it out there, because I still feel a bit haunted by the experience.

So here it is.

***

The Day I cried over Spilled Milk.

      To me, obviously this person who ever invented that phrase has never had any farming experience. I know, I know, this person was referring to one little glass that might get inadvertently knocked over on the table; never did they ever think of having to dump a whole tank down the drain.

      To me, that is definitely something to cry about.

      Looking back on this weekend I have to laugh, because I remember thinking that it was going to be a really good one. Yeah, so much for my intuition, huh?

It was early Saturday morning on July 23, the usual, about 3:40 AM. I was the first to arrive, again, as usual. It was very quiet and warm. The kind of warm, that if you were to lie down in the grass or on a lounge chair, you would fall asleep in no time.

I walked into the lab and clocked in. Recently, working with the calves had become a bit of a challenge. We had had a lot of bull calves in the recent weeks and they were becoming a burden to care for. We also had a large number of weaned calves to care for as well, and the job wasn’t so much fun anymore. But this morning, I looked at the calf logs and saw that we were down a huge number. That made me happy, and that was the reason I thought it was going to be a good weekend. That one little thing. But my feelings of the weekend couldn’t have been more wrong.

      After turning on the separator and the pump I made my way to the parlor to begin set up; noticing that my partner still had yet to arrive. I gave her a polite call, and was directed to her voicemail. I wasn’t surprised, I had worked by myself several times already, and one of them the person’s cellphone was off.

      I was just bummed that the speakers weren’t working, because one of the times I had to work alone, I played Journey and Van Halen all morning. It was kind of nice actually. But today, I had no music, and also had to be back on the farm that afternoon. So, it was really going to be a long morning. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to do calf pens that morning if she didn’t show up soon.

      I called her again when I had finished setting up and was going to bring in the first run of cows. Still no luck.

      ‘OK,’ I was thinking, ‘Let’s just do this then. It’s going to be a long morning.’

      Of course once I was just finishing up with the Second Alley, my friend M shows up. She has this way of calling out my name that makes me jump. I don’t know why it happens that way. She just scares me when she calls out my name. We both laughed when I jumped and she asked if I was by myself. I gestured around me and said, “Yeah, kinda obvious.”

So she then helped me finish off the morning. My milking partner came just as we were about to milk the sick cows. I had just taken a much needed bathroom break when she launched herself into me.

“Oh…my…gosh!” every word was punctuated with agonizing clarity. “I…am…so…sorry!” and then the list of excuses started raining down. Just as I expected, they were the same clichéd excuses heard from the beginning of time.

“I don’t know what happened! My phone must have died, that’s why I didn’t hear your calls or hear my alarm.

“I don’t understand, I had another alarm, I don’t know why it didn’t work.

“I’m so sorry.”

I told her over and over again it was fine, that people sleep in, it happens. But she wouldn’t drop it. I know, I probably sound unreasonable. But looking back on that weekend I can’t help but feel angry.

I told her, we were going to finish milking the sick cows, feed the calves and then shove off for the day and leave the pens for Sunday.

It wasn’t until ten that we left and I had been there almost seven hours, with another evening shift to go that day, and then the whole day Sunday.

As I drove off I thought for sure we had our bad day and that the rest of the weekend would go smoothly. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

That evening was one of the worst milkings with the cows that I had ever had. Normally I work outside but with my partner, she was new, and slow. Glacially slow. When working with someone you know and has been there awhile, it’s very easy to get done between 6:30-7. But with this girl it was never before 7:30. 

It was hot! I had the fan on full blast, but the flies and the humidity made everyone just angry. Normally I will have a Jersey kick off the milker maybe 5 times on a bad milking. This night, I had milkers getting kicked off multiple times by at least 5 cows in a run of 14.  Everytime.  I thought for sure it would get better with the Holsteins, they kicked just as bad.

The number one rule I have with myself when working with animals, especially ones that are not the brightest in the world, is that they don’t speak English. When you scream and shout, they don’t understand what you’re saying, it’s not going to make things better. And I never, ever hit. The screaming thing, not so much. When trying to get them off that ridiculous scale, sometimes a good bellow keeps me from face-palming myself onto a metal gate.

Hitting doesn’t do anything but injure you. And that’s what I did. In a previous milking I had lost my temper once and paid the price. For me, the cow had kicked the machine off one times too many. And I lost it. I lifted my hand up and smacked her twice on the rump and on that second time I felt a scrunching in my right shoulder. I must of pulled a muscle or something, but I still have yet to gain full flexibility in it. 

 

Well I lost my temper again and up my arm went and down it came, this time on an obstinate Holstein named Molly whose game is to kick off the machine. I had no patience for her tonight and out again went my shoulder. I bit my tongue to keep the flow of curses I had in my head from sailing into the air.  Deep breaths can be really helpful in those situations.

Well it was onto the Fourth Alley, almost done! And I was running from one end of the milking pit to the other, when my bad ankle twisted on the rubber mats on the floor. I had a bad accident a week before my high school graduation and severely twisted my right ankle, it, unlike my shoulder is all too flexible and can collapse under me anytime it wishes. And again, unlike my shoulder, twisting my ankle is a pain I can’t compare it to. It sends spots into my vision and I can’t breathe right for about 30 seconds. Then the pain begins to fade and my ankle is only sore for a few hours afterwards. But saints alive! It hurts!

So, if we’re keeping score, that’s heat, ankle, shoulder, bad behavior, and sweat, that has made this one of my worst milkings ever. We finally finished just before 8 and I was exhausted. All I wanted was dinner, some bad Netflix, and sleep. Again, as I drove out the driveway, I thought, things couldn’t possibly get worse tomorrow. I also thought, this time tomorrow night, I’m going home. That thought brought a smile to my face, probably the only one I made all weekend.

Sunday morning rolled around and this time the milking went nice. It was cool outside and a breeze had been going all morning. And it actually went well… so I thought. My partner and I had just finished bedding the calves; it was about 9 in the morning when M walked out of the parlor.

“Uh guys, I think you just milked a sick cow in with the tank.”

What? At that moment my phone rang, I wasn’t surprised to see it was my boss.

“Well the computer says you milked a cow with the fourth alley.” All the time my mind was wheeling.

How did this happen? The math was right…I didn’t see any footbands. How did this happen? The math was right, I’m sure there was the right number of cows this morning…

The next hour my phone was hot-potatoed from me, to M, to my partner, it spent most of the time with my partner, as she was the one who mixed up the cows.

When I had it I stammered to my boss that I had no idea why a cow with footbands would sneak past me. And when we removed her from the alley I saw her.

I didn’t have the phone so I caught M’s attention, who at that time, was talking to him.

“She doesn’t have any footbands!” and I gesture around my wrist my left hand circling my right wrist. “No footbands!” I say again, she looked and then relayed the message to him. I’m sure to this day I would have been fired if she had them, but then again, I’m sure I wouldn’t have missed it.

I wasn’t surprised that the offending cow was a Jersey, I was sure she slipped under the bars and into the Fourth Alley, could have been at anytime. But what I still puzzled about is how a Holstein got into the sick alley, she was definitely too big for slipping under. I came to the conclusion that my milking partner probably moved her over when she counted them, thinking she was a sick cow.

I talked to my boss on the phone, “So are we going to test the milk?” it felt like my question landed on deaf ears,

“Lydia I need you to dump the milk. And come to a meeting tomorrow morning at nine.” The whole time I was feeling pretty calm. I know freaking out doesn’t help, but that was when I could feel the color drain from my face. And what’s sad, is that it wasn’t the meeting and the question that I might get fired, it was that I was going to have to stay, and that I wasn’t going to get home that night; and that I was going to have to tell my parents.

“OK.” I breathed out shakily.

So we walked over to the parlor and went to the tank. I still didn’t understand why we didn’t test it, it was only one milking…but it wasn’t my decision.

I bent down to the mouth of the tank and opened it. It took twenty minutes for it to drain. The whole time I saw the pure white milk drain, I felt my heart sink with it. Growing up on the dairy, I had seen times when the milked had to be dumped and the affect it had on the people around me. This wasn’t good. Plain and simple.

What a waste.

It wasn’t until noon that we were done, after rinsing out everything and cleaning. I didn’t leave right away. I stayed and talked to M and we made plans to meet at her house that night. She had given me a granola bar and I sat down and tried to eat it. It didn’t go down easily, but I was hungry. I then called my boss.

I’m not going to cry. I told myself. I’m going to be strong, the phone rung in my ear. I’m not going to cry.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Lydia, just letting you know that everything is clean and finished up.” My voice begins to crack, no! “And,” my breath hitches in my throat. “That,” here it goes. “I’m so sorry.” I bawl it out. Sobbing into the phone.

“I know you are Lydia. These things happen.”

I regain some control, “It’s just that,” I sniffle, “I know how hard it is to dump milk, and I’ve had an awful weekend.”

“Well, when it rains it pours.” he said. Then I hung up. Feeling no better.

I came back to the apartment and relay the story to my sister and my mom, tearfully over the phone. Both told me it wasn’t my fault, this happens, milk gets dumped sometimes. It happens. But I could not shake the awful feeling of Monday.   

Milking that night was uneventful, she was scared to work outside this time, so I did and we didn’t get done until 8, and we double checked every number in the Fourth Alley, and took roll call in the sick pen to make sure everyone was counted for. Thankfully, they were.

I met at M’s that night and we had a whole gossip, beer, Dexter party. Actually, really Dexter only played in the background, we didn’t watch it. We spent too much time talking. I did feel better, but not about the future of my job. I was so paranoid that I was beginning to make a speech in case he was going to fire me. Because I truly felt that it wasn’t my fault. Especially since she had no footbands.

The next morning I packed my clothes, wondering how my story was going to be to my parents. Was it going to have a happy ending? Or was I going to tell them I might have to quit school because I no longer have any income. I know, quitting school? But I am a worst-case scenario person.

I put on one of my favorite t-shirts, a shirt from Threadless, it’s called “Retold with Unicorns.” A funny shirt, I felt better with it on.

At 8:30am I left for the dairy. I really can’t put into words how I felt as I drove over. Scared? Maybe. Sad? Definitely. Angry? Some.

As always, I arrived early. I can’t even really remember what I did before the meeting happened. I think my thoughts were whirling about in mind too fast to process them correctly. All I know was that I was a jumble of nerves.

      When the meeting happened I walked up the steps to the office with a dread. My feet felt heavy, and my spirit defeated. I don’t know what it is about this place, that when you make a mistake; you feel like you just committed some sort of crime. And when walking into the office for a talk about it, is like a sentencing on your life. I’ve made plenty of mistakes growing up, academically, and personally, but never, have I ever felt this bad before. Normally I can get up, and shake it off, ready for the next challenge. But it’s safe to say that this one messed me up for a long time.

I sat down heavily on the chair in the office and stared at all the cool “Got Milk” ads. Thinking that maybe one day I could be in one of them. That would be cool. That little thought cheered me up.

      “OK girls,” my boss starts. “Tell me what happened so that we can fix this.”

      In my mind I snort. There was nothing that I could tell him that I hadn’t already told him. I don’t know how that cow got in the Fourth Alley, and I don’t know why she didn’t have any footbands on.

“Well all I can say,” I start, “is that somehow that cow must have slipped under the bars into the other alley. The previous night was insane and things must have just gotten confused.”

      That was really all I could tell him and had already told him. I believe he wanted some sort of magical answer or a confession. But I really have no idea how those cows got mixed up, except that my partner did something. But I wasn’t out there, that was her story to tell.

He looks at her,

“All I can say,” she starts, “Is that I must have mixed them up somehow. And I want to say that it wasn’t Lydia’s fault.”

Damn straight. I think. I was to the point thinking that I was owed something. All weekend I had been crapped on and I was ready to fight for myself. Wasn’t necessary though.

“Lydia,” he looks at me, “I just don’t know how those footbands weren’t on that cow. I know I put them on her, they must have fallen off. Can you stay till 10?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you can go.”

“Really?” my brain was confused. This is it? “OK.”

“Yes, please leave us for a few minutes.”

I look down on my partner and place a hand on her shoulder. I wanted to give her some comfort. Because in all of this, she must be just as scared as I am. So I leave the office.

M was there waiting, wanting to know all the details. As we were discussing what went down, my partner comes flying into the lab, sobbing. Oh dear.

Tearfully she filled out her timecard, and I wanted to comfort her somehow. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I’m a person who thinks that if you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. But I just couldn’t in this case. Survivor’s guilt I think.

“Do you want a hug?” I ask her.

“NO!”

“I’m sorry about this.” M tells her, and then my partner takes off out of the driveway spinning tires and flinging gravel.

“Lydia,” I hear my boss call me. “Could you come up here for a second?” I look at M and we share a look. This might be my turn at the guillotine, who knows?

I walk up the stairs.

“I just wanted to tell you…” and he went on about something about being able to care for the animals and making mistakes, and that’s why she as fired. Honestly I can tell you I didn’t hear a word. I was paying attention, but I was so worried I was getting fired that I didn’t hear it.

“So is that clear?”

I just nod.

“OK then, see you at 10.” I look at my watch. It was only 9.30. This only took half an hour? It felt like years had gone by.

Since I had half an hour until the meeting, I decided to call my mom and tell her that everything was OK and that I would give her the full details of what happened when I would get home. I was just so relieved. I had kept my job. Thank goodness!

M and I went to her place and watched some Netflix and talked about the weekend. I was just so glad it was over and never wanted anything like that to happen again. From then on, I kept lists of the sick cows and would check every Fourth Alley cow to make sure she wasn’t a treated cow.

I think I might have annoyed my milking partners, but I was soooo paranoid. I would go home Sunday night with my phone and get into bed completely convinced I was going to get a call that something went wrong the previous milking. The next weekend I went to bed after the Saturday morning milking with my phone clutched in my hands certain I would get another call. It was like that for the rest of the summer. I eased up a little, but I was sure I made a mistake even though I had double-checked everything. It wasn’t a very nice summer work wise.

But I had survived. And I learned. And I also had shorter milking shifts since I was working with more experienced people. I’m sure that I will have more problems and learning situations in work. And I just hope that I handle them better. I feel like that I had a mental melt down with my self-confidence. And I don’t want to feel that way ever again. 

So that's the story in as much detail as I can remember. It was a truly awful weekend. But hey, those make the best stories right? LOL

Back to the Basics: What makes the Paranormal Activity Movies Scary.

And awesome. LOL. It was a choice between scary or awesome, and I decided that scary was more important in the title. LOL

Anyways.
So, Paranormal Activity was a breakout sensation when it hit theaters in October of 2009. I still remember watching the TRAILER for the first time. I was sitting in the office and when the bed sheet...what is it with these people and bed sheets? (more on that later.) flipped up I genuinely gasped and felt a chill.

I knew right then that I had to see it. I went by myself the first time I saw it and when I drove home I couldn't stop thinking about the ending, the middle, and everything in between. And I will say this, it was the first horror movie I had ever watched that kept me up at night. I think it was three. I couldn't stop picturing Katie just standing there over my bed. Thank goodness Sailor was there. Otherwise I would have gotten 0 sleep. LOL
So it was easy to say that I was super excited to hear about the SECOND movie. I watched the trailer over and over, mainly because there was supposed to be Easter Eggs hidden within it and such. I will warn you, that the second trailer, should you watch it is slightly spoiler-y.

When I saw the second movie, it was a late showing, and I came home to an empty apartment. I didn't go to sleep right away, but that was because I was thinking about it. As far as scary goes, I thought that I had gotten used to the tricks the writers had employed for these types of movies. Because sleep was easy, and I wasn't excited. BUT I thought that it was still a better movie. And that was because I felt it added to the mythology of the first and built a deeper story line, making the first one better. So I was still very happy, and when I heard about the third one, still excited for it.

So I saw Paranormal Activity 3 on Halloween at 10.15 PM. A nice late showing on Halloween night, perfect right?
I didn't know what to expect with this movie. I felt for sure that it was not going to be as freaky, or intense. I had seen the first two a couple of times and felt like I had this in the bag. This was also the first time I went with someone else to see it.
My sister had seen it before me and said it was very scary. So I took that into account, but also know that anything scares her. LOL
And boy, this was the best movie yet. Each movie seems to have a different camera gag, the first was all hand held, kind of a first person experience. The second one had surveillance cameras, more of an omniscient look. We can see everything. The third one, has an oscillating fan. And that was the scariest thing about the movie. I won't go into much detail, but a gag with the classic ghost in a bed sheet won't seem to innocent anymore. PA3 is by far the best movie. I don't know if it was their "huge" 5 million dollar budget, or if they just have this thing down. But I hear there's a 4th one on the way, I'm in!

So why are these movies so scary? When we live in an age of digital effect laden movies and torture porn like Saw and Hostel?
It's really because of the steady and fast rule of KIS. Keep It Simple. And that's just what these writers did.
There is no score in the PA movies. It's silent the whole time. And the most of the freak outs, especially in the third movie, are fake outs. Which heightens the wondering of, if THIS time, it's real. And that builds up the tension faster than the Psycho theme. It's also the first person way of telling the story, it makes you feel like you're in the house with them and experiencing the happenings as well.

It also helps, that so far, every audience I've sat with, has been really great. We all sat there laughing nervously, during the fake outs, talked to the screen. Cried, "OH sh!t!" At the end, and let whoever was whimpering in the back, just whimper. Times like that, can make any movie five times better.

There is one thing about the movies I wished they'd stop doing. And that is putting footage in the trailer, that's not in the movies. But really, that's just griping.

Very little blood. Zero gore, and just a few swear words, because really, I'd be talking the same way in these situations. These movies are almost of the PG-13 level. But give the scares of a well deserved R.
For the adrenaline junky, the ghost story fanatic, and for a yelling-at-the-screen good time. Watch the Paranormal Activity movies. Because I know you'll regret it at night. And here, that's a good thing.

Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse...

They truly get better!

Let's just say that at the end of June, I wasn't feeling so hot. I had just come off one of my worst years as a student ever, and totally questioning every direction I was going in life. I was wondering if college was even the right thing for me at all. Sure I was happy that I had chosen to pursue a career in art, but the whole year had still left me questioning my abilities as an adult.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a child at heart, and knows that even though I'm 22, I'm really 12.

And I thought my personality was ruining my chances at being a successful adult. And that truly scared me.

Then I got a letter from OSU saying that they were going to cut my Financial Aid because of my math grades. I didn't know that I could have felt that low. I had never failed so poorly before. Of course I went through all the measures to regain my aid, but I felt completely hopeless.

I found myself doing nothing but listening to "The Vampire Diaries Soundtrack" Songs: Cut, and Down .

Then there was a huge mess up at work, which in all honesty is another story for another time, that most who read this, already know of, and the rest really won't care about. LOL, wait for it in "R&R."

But at least, I was thinking to myself, I still have my job.

But then Pottermore had their early entry game, and I got in. It was a nice distraction. And then! I got an email from OSU, saying that they had approved my appeal!!!!! Plus, I had bought myself an Asus Transformer, with free Angry Birds. Hey, it was the little things that were making me feel better. LOL

And then! I got this in my email this morning,

So, right now I feel awesome. A new, and funded, year is ahead of me, and I can't wait to prove to the board that they did the right thing by approving my appeal. And if you're curious, I found that I still have a copy of my letter. I never delete things until I'm absolutely sure I won't need them anymore. LOL

July 12, 2011

To whom it may Concern,

My name is Lydia Atsma, and I am a student currently attending Oregon State University. Recently my grades have fallen below where they have ever been before. It was my dream my whole life to become a scientist and work with animals. But with that dream, came one huge hurdle, and that was math. Along with my desire to study and work with animals, my whole life I had also struggled with math. Every year was one challenge after another to get passing grades with that subject, but I was able to do it. And I thought, if I could pass Trigonometry, I could pass Calculus 1, and if I could pass Calculus 1, I could pass the second level. But sadly, it seemed that Trig was as far as I could go. I even tried to remedy my failure in Calculus and try again. But it still seemed out of reach.

Now, I am facing my second year at OSU, and after changing my major, my grades have improved immensely. But just not enough, all I need is one more term to get my grades back into where they need to be. I am now pursuing a different major, one in Graphic Design, and I am eager to move on from the previous year.

I implore you to give me one more chance. I know I can fix my grades and become a student in good standing once again. All I need is a second chance.

Thank you for taking the time to read my letter.

With much gratitude,

Lydia Atsma.

Boy, it's been awhile!

Ok, I guess for some, almost a month is not that long. But for someone like me, who loves to share, it kinda is. For awhile there, I had been sharing snips of my new "book," "Rubber Boots and Rhinestones." Writing on that has dipped as of now, and not because I don't have anything to write about, it's just, as of now, I'm too busy, and I really need my "notes" from home. Which I keep forgetting to bring back with me! LOL

But I digress, the real reason I came here today is because, it's official! I am now an art student. And I can say it's official because I'm getting art student emails in my onid. Yay!

But I will miss being a science student. I have long dreamed to be out in the ocean counting whales, or studying elephants...but it is just not who I'm supposed to be.

I will be honest, I spent way too much time crying over my major. I should not be sad about what I'm learning. I should be excited! And inspired! But all I found were migraines and tears. If this is something I want to do for the rest of my life, it shouldn't be like this. And really, I'm just glad that math will never be in my schedule ever again.

So, after traipsing over campus multiple times, speaking with endless advisors, receiving multiple pins, and scheduling stuff, I finally have everything worked out for fall. And once these next two weeks are completed, I can happily travel to California and work this summer. And see the last Harry Potter.

Another tale from "Rubber Boots."

It has been awhile since I posted a story. Here is one of my favorites. It's all about silage! LOL

Rubber boots:

Weather is a tricky and fickle thing in the dairying business. Actually it's the same when it comes to any part of the agriculture field. It's hard to farm a good crop of corn when the sun doesn't come out until August. And it's really hard to use your flush system when the rains never seem to cease. But somehow we always manage.

I never mind the weather. I have just grown so accustomed to it, that no matter what it is; it doesn't bother me as much as it does other people. I'm not saying I wouldn't mind it to be a balmy 60 degrees and sunny every day, I'm just saying that if it isn't; I'm OK with that. In fact, I am a person who will stand in a downpour and lift my face up into the rain. It just feesl good to do that.

But no matter the sun, the wind, or the rain; there was always one job that I had wished for better weather on. And that was during Silage Season. (As it is called on our farm.)

Silage is a type of feed that we can store and keep for our cows to eat all throughout the year. And there are two main types of it. Corn and grass silage. And when it is harvested (and that is when Silage Season starts) that is the time our farm becomes extremely busy. We have tractors and dump trucks coming in all day for about a week. And tons of goodies are bought and made for our Harvestors. Gatorades and sandwiches and cookies oh my!

I always remember making a stack of sandwiches for my dad and Pakae as they would sit in their John Deeres listening to talk radio while they would push the silage up into one gigantic pile. I always vowed to myself that I would never, ever do that job.

You see, and this may come as a surprise, I have an almost crippling fear of heights. Really. Crippling. During my walking class in college we walked up flights of stairs in a car park and I clung to the railing as we marched up and up like a retard. My breaths weren't heavy because I was tired, it was because I was freaking out inside. Don't ask where this came from. Because I have no idea. I am a girl that will jump in line for any roller coaster. But when it comes to ferris wheels, I'm like BA from The A-Team. It's sad, I know.

And so, to be driving up a ginormous hill, in a huge green tractor, with no supports to stop you from tumbling over the side was not something I would be doing anytime soon. And as my luck would have it, I never did.

It was always cute to watch my Beppe and Pakae during lunch breaks. My Beppe would bring a little lunch pail and she and Pakae would sit in the bed of his truck and have lunch together. And then when that was done, sometimes she would go pick fruit.

So the harvesting would go on for a few days, the dump trucks would seem endless, and just when you think you're about to go crazy from those trunks banging over the dip in our driveway. It would be done! And the blessed silence will return once more....until our neighbor's across the street decide to start using their bird cannon again to keep the starlings from eating their grapes.

Once all of the silage was in one huge pile, it was now time to cover it; and that is when a very important fermentation process will begin, and that will keep the silage from going bad. And this was one of all my all-time least favorite jobs in the dairy, ever.

And the reasons for that are as follows:

Why I dislike covering Silage

1) Having to move big, awkward, heavy things by hand.

A giant roll of plastic sheeting it dragged up by a tractor, and then we roll it the length of the pile. Then, it is cut to fit the area needed, and the rest is stored for later use. Here is where the weather is very important, but never worked out.

2) Wind is bad. Dead stillness is good. Does that ever happen? No.

Stretching the tarp is done a whole lot easier when there is no wind. If it is as still as the dead outside, getting the tarp to fit the pile is pretty easy. But somehow we always managed to pick a windy day that would decide to pick up the tarp had heave-hoe it all about. So, tires must be placed all over the tarp as quickly as possible.

3) Tossing nasty, water filled tires does horrible, horrible things to your beautiful nails.

Even though this is another testament to how dairies are constantly recycling and reusing; touching nasty, used and dead tires is disgusting! Anything could be in those things, from dead mice and frogs, to spiders. Not to mention the fact that months and months of rain water has collected in them and they are now spilling all down your front! I was always happy to volunteer to be the tractor driver who lifted the tires up on top of the pile so that I didn't have to touch them too much. But that didn't happen all the time. Most of the time I was moving them to weigh down the tarp.

I have this strange love for my finger nails. I love them. When they grow long and even, I feel like I have achieved something. I don’t know why.

P.S: The next day, expect to have very sore shoulders.

But as tiring, and dirtifying, (Yes I know I just made up a word, but it works.) as the job is; it is so gratifying to see the work you just accomplished, and to know, that your cows will have food all throughout the winter.

After the job was done, my dad and I would stand there admiring our accomplishment, and then go get a Gatorade.

A "Wicked" Review

As my previous post said, on Saturday, I went to see Wicked in Eugene. I never thought I could enjoy a show this much.
Even though I knew how it ended, the words to every song, and had watched more than a few clips on Youtube, I was still blown away.
The set, the lights, the costumes, and especially the actors were....and I have found myself using this word too many times these last few days...AMAZING!
There was an insert in our program that said Elphaba was going to be played the by the "standby" that time, and me Keisha wondered about the difference between "standby" and "understudy" was.
But from the moment Elphaba sings of her fantasy life in "The Wizard and I." I knew this was going to be a great show.
Actually, I knew it was going to be a great show, when the Time-Clock Dragon came to life in the first seconds of the play.
I have taken several videos, but I'll only put up "Defying Gravity," because even days later, I still tear up watching it. The emotion and power is felt through, even with my bad focusing skills. LOLThe stage: The curtain was a map of OZ, and that is the cool Dragon, who's eyes also glow red at certain points in the show.


Defying Gravity



And this is the video for Defying Gravity.

Already I can't wait to see the play again. It comes to Portland over my birthday next year...who knows? But for sure if I go, I am making my Mom come. There is no way she's going to miss this if I go again. LOL I know she would love it.

Squeeeee!

Today is a good day. Today I'm going to see Wicked. It's been about three to four years, that I have obsessed about this musical. I have wanted to see it for a long time!
For those of you who don't know.
"Wicked: The Untold Story of the Witches of Oz," is based off of the novel by Gregory Macguire. "Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West."
The novel is no way near as entertaining as the musical. I read it last summer and had to push myself through it because it had none of the charm or quirk of the musical. I don't recommend the book.

Well anyways, today I'm off to see Wicked with my besty from high school, Keisha. And it was all because I posted a random blog a couple of months ago:

I Love Musicals!

So here I sit, all dressed and ready to go hours before I need to, watching a Dexter to pass the time. Sigh...always ready too early. LOL
Anyways, soon I'll post pictures or videos that I have and my thoughts about the play. Gosh...I can't fricken wait!!! To see Defying Gravity.

Here's the best quality video of that song:
Although, Idina Menzel had just had an asthma attack before going on, so her vocals aren't the best. But, still an amazing song.

Defying Gravity

So, super excited. Can't wait. Must find something to do to pass the time. LOL

Here's a Rhinestone story....

I've been giving out a lot of Rubber Boots stories, so I thought it was time for a Rhinestone one, so here you go.

Rhinestones:

I knew I had nothing to worry about. This was simple. All I had to do was go to the church and hand out bags of goodies to the kids, smile for pictures, and hope that the calf didn't poop on the grass. But I couldn't shake the nerves. This was my first official event as a Dairy Princess. I stared at myself in the little mirror in my room, adjusting the tiara, making sure the point wasn't off center. A princess mustn’t have a crooked tiara. I heaved another sigh, and looked at the time. Then rolled my eyes. Nerves. I'm always ready too early.

So I hopped onto my bed with frustration, and snatched my laptop. I'm ready so early, I can fit in another viewing of a Supernatural episode. But as cute as Jensen Ackles was, he just couldn't keep my attention, and fifteen minutes later; I left for the event a full hour early. My mind full of excuses:

“I'm not sure where I’m going. I don't want to be late for being lost.”

“I can drive slow, I get more Foreigner songs in that way.”

“I think I need to get some gas anyways. This will give me the time I need.”

Because, after all, along with a straight tiara, a princess must always be prompt.

Sadly, the swooping, heartfelt lyrics of “I Want to Know What Love Is,” could not help me. My fingers gripped the steering wheel of my Ford Ranger Troy, and my knuckles were white. For some reason I had this horrible feeling that I was going to mess up. But I couldn't mess up. It was so simple.

I have done harder things than this before. Speech tournaments were way more difficult than this. And I was First Alternate last year. I can do this. But the pinching metal teeth of my tiara was a painful reminder of just how official this was. I was representing a whole county of farmers. I had to do this right. The thought of messing up, entered my mind and my heart lurched in my chest.

I stopped at a red light and took a deep breath. Absentmindedly I stroked my hair, the cold band of metal passed under my fingers. Soon memories flashed by, the cows, my family, my coronation, school. I had overcome so many barriers and obstacles in my life. And no way was this any kind of obstacle, for years I had dreamed of wearing the tiara, I couldn't wait. I had wanted this for so long, and worked hard to earn the right to wear one, and now, here was my time. This year, 2008, was my year to reign over Marion County. To represent all the hard working farmers and be the face of all dairy products.

Fear and nervousness was soon replaced with excitement. And I couldn't wait to get to the church and spread the news of dairy.

My Dad's intro...

Still in a funnier mood. Here's my Dad's intro in the book.

My dad is one of the coolest people. Well, maybe not cool, but he sure is fun to hang around. Even if it is only 8 degrees outside, and there's three inches of ice on the ground, and it's midnight. Midnight! He will cheerfully tell you, in his annoyingly perky morning person way,

“Hey, the milker made it this morning...”

Yes! I'm thinking. I get to go back to bed, I get to back to bed! In a lovely, and happy sing song voice in my head.

“So why don't we just do the chores now.” and off he goes.

Whistling.

It's midnight, and he's whistling.

And I am armed.

With a pitchfork.

If that isn't some sort of death wish, than I don't know what would be. But I still gave the milk cows their alfalfa, fed the calves milk, and helped my dad with the flush. So I guess it was all good in the end.

When you look at him, especially in pictures. My dad seems like an imposing person. He's tall, bald, has a goatee, and bulging biceps. But really, he is just one big teddy bear. Maybe that's because he had raised two daughters, and only one son. When you're outnumbered, it's hard to stay a rough and tough dairy farmer all the time.

We have spent countless hours together on the farm. Been through many adventures and some just rather ordinary days. But I wouldn't trade any one of them for the world.

Another story...

I was debating whether or not to write about this. But, it is what happened, and when I look back; it really is a funny story. Just embarrassing.

So, enjoy laughing at my expense. LOL

Rubber Boots:

It's actually funny that I mention PETA. Because when I was really little, maybe 7 or 8. I would have fit the mold of a PETA activist just fine. It all happened when I first saw a cow get butchered. I had no idea what was going on, and had never seen anything like that before. And I guess when you're really little, seeing a cow get strung up by her legs, with blood dripping down her neck, can be kind of disturbing.

Which is odd for me, because this was the same little girl who was just dying to watch Jurassic Park. Huh, go figure.

So I took to my bedroom and I made my thoughts known. I wrote my dad a letter, well, not really a letter. More of a rant. Sigh, this is probably one of the most ridiculous things that I have ever done. I'm sitting here rolling my eyes and sighing in amusement and embarrassment as I write this.

A drew a picture of a man, smiling devilishly at a poor sick cow, holding a knife. And underneath in my big scrawl I wrote, “I hate, hate.....(there were lots of “hates,” and I don't remember how many) butchers.” Or “killing.” I can't remember which either. I've tried desperately to block this from my memory. But at opportune times my mom keeps bringing it up. Never letting me forget.

Well, once this “masterpiece” was put together, I left it on my dad's pillow, and went to sleep.

It's easy for you to figure out that I got a good talking to the next morning.

But these days I can say that I am guilt free when it comes utilizing a terminal animal. We once had a program that would pay us for the cows, and the meat would go to charity.

I even got familiar with the men who would come to the farm to do the job. Once I talked with them the whole time, and they gave me an impromptu anatomy lesson on the cow.

They asked me why I was working, and I told them about Washington D.C. And it went from there. Eventually, I actually found the process to be fascinating, I've always enjoyed exploring how things work and why. And seeing how big a cow's liver, or heart is- is fascinating.

And once I got older, I got more involved in the process, I would move the cows with the tractor and help clean up afterward.You might think the stomach contents of a cow would be the grossest thing you'd have to hose down, but really, all it is- is chewed up grass. It looks a lot like what a lawn mower might spit out.

And one more thing, we have the best hamburger in all of the U.S. We know where it comes from, and how it grew. And it is some of the tastiest meat I have ever had. Home grown cows make the best hamburgers. We even donate meat to our church to help feed the hungry.

It's easy for me to say that I have no need to return to my brief life as a PETA activist.

Just a taste....

So, I seriously doubt any of my high school friends would remember this. But on the very last day of class, in College Writing, I talked about how I wanted to put down all of my dairy stories and make it into a book.

Well I am finally making good on that promise.
Mainly because while I was sitting in my Art 101 class, I came up with the perfect title, and I thought that this title was just too good to not do anything with.

"Rubber Boots and Rhinestones: The Life and Times of a tomboy-princess"

So, just to test the waters, here's the introduction.

Rubber boots

&

Rhinestones

The life and times of a tomboy-princess.

By: Lydia Atsma

Introduction

As a farm girl, growing up, I had little to no fashion sense. At all. Everyday was the same for me, some graphic t shirt, most likely had a horse on it of some sort, cotton jeans, and a french braid. It didn't help that I was also gifted with my Dutch genes of hugeness. Finding jeans long enough to fit me, and stay decently fitted was another challenge altogether. Once it took all of one month for me to grow out of my clothes.

So since my outfits seemed to have more of a limited lifetime than normal people, I just really didn't care about how I looked when I attended my little middle school. Which happened to be the same middle school that my dad and his siblings went to.

But, there was a glimmer of hope for me at one point.

I loved shoes.

It must have started out long ago, before I even moved to the farm. One of the very first Christmases that I remember. It was my turn to open a present. Eagerly I tore through the wrapping. Wrenched open the box, and heaved the tissue paper willy nilly. Inside, was one pair of the pinkest of pink cowgirl boots. The exact same boots that I had begged for for months.

Bright pink, with a sequined design, and the cherry on top: fringe. That right there must have been the moment that I would covet any heel, boot, sneaker, or flip flop that tickled my fancy in the store. That and......

Probably the most fashion-less shoe I have ever worn:

The rubber boot.

Rubber boots and rhinestones. These two things don't seem to have much in common. But in my life, they were the biggest source of inspiration, joy, sadness, and frustration. I spent my whole life as a dairy kid, and two years in the Dairy Princess/ Ambassador program. Both of these things led and contributed to who I am today.

And they also made some wonderful memories, and unforgettable lessons in the process.

My Short Story. (No vampires or werewolves included)

Haha, first I'd like to thank Twilight for skewing some people's idea as to what this story is actually about.
For anybody who might be confused: there are NO vampires in this story, and NO werewolves.
Thank you.

By the Full Moon

By: Lydia Atsma

***

There's nothing quite like the sight of freshly spilled blood glinting in the moonlight. Blood never shines as brightly as it does when it's bathed within the clean white glow of the full moon. Maybe that's why I love this time of the month so much.

The moon. It's so clean. It follows a never ending pattern. Its habits never differ, it can always be counted on. And it's so white.

White. Red.

They seem to be my favorite color combination. The cleanliness of the white. The...emotion of the red.

Emotions. They are such a complicated issue with me. There are times that I can't see anything but my rage. I don't know what it's like to be happy; I feel instincts only. I feel fear, frustration, and anger.

The main thing that seems to frustrate me these days are the teenagers that are placed within my care everyday. Even I don't know how I do it.

I stand there and teach those thankless Creightons everyday and get nothing in return.

Well, I do get something. When it's safe, and when enough time has passed, I find a teenager who makes my life worth living.

By giving me the one thing I can never have: peace and the power that accompanies it. That one time. Once a year. Forget Christmas, or my birthday. This time, by the full moon of the summer solstice, does one person give me the peace I crave. And it is the only time of year that I anticipate.

I continue to watch the blood pool, the thick stream flows slowly and heavily into the grass.

I sigh in satisfaction and lift my head to the sky. The cool night air touches my heated cheeks. The excitement courses through me. The tingles of pleasure, the waves of power. I shudder and savor this very fleeting moment. Fleeting. So fleeting.

I sigh again. This time in sadness. Yes, sadness. I can feel that too. For now I know I must clean up and dispose of the body. And my time for tranquility is now coming to an end.

I look away from the moon and back to the blood, which is now darkening with age. No feeling comes to me as I observe the now meaningless puddle.

That sign tells me now is the time to clean up.

“Alright Celia,” I mutter to myself, “Time to move.”

Kevin Jenkins. An 18 year old loud mouth, who smoked weed in the bathroom and never arrived to class on time. His lack of organization set my mind to grinding. It hurt to look at him and I could feel my desire well up every time he walked by. His habits drove me insane.

So, I dealt with him.

How? You may ask. It's pretty simple actually. It doesn't take much to lure a slacker like him away from the safety of society: ***

“Hi there,” my voice is sweet as I purr. The smokey, dark bar is a perfect place to lure away someone like Kevin.

“Hey,” his voice drawls slowly in his stupor. Then he frowns in confusion, “Do I know you?”

“I think I would recognize you.” I say with a gentle laugh, and I reach out and touch his arm. He smiles.

“Yeah,” he slurs, “I guess you're right.”

“So are you celebrating something?” I ask batting my eyelashes.

“The end of school.”

“Well, congratulations,” I say.

It went on from there, and before I knew it, I was taking him out back and into my Jeep. It couldn't have been easier.

***

I never take long in my process. Time is one luxury that is always in heavy demand. Besides it's the blood I’m interested in, not his death.

I sigh again and look at the boy's body. How am I going to drag his 6' 2” frame? I am such a little person. I pull my long red hair back behind my head and begin the clean up process.

I grunt and heave as I drag his cooling body into the surrounding trees. Being out in the woods makes it easier to kill people. It's dark, secluded, and quiet. But most importantly, it seems to bring to life the primal side of me that I keep dormant for most of my life. To be out amongst other instinctual creatures feels so freeing.

I don't know what I would be like if I let myself go as much as I wanted. I surely wouldn't be as careful. That part makes me nervous. If anything, I try to keep my killer contained as much as possible, not because I feel any moral obligations, but because I feel the need for self-preservation. As an instinctual creature, protecting myself is the number one rule.

I fear containment. A tiny prison cell, for life. I surely wouldn't need to fake the insanity plea, the walls of those little rooms would do that for me just fine.

I shudder at that thought, and move more quickly in disposing of the body.

I have no fear that my fellow creatures of the night within the woods will help cover up my tracks.

***

A cloud is hanging over my head. This cloud is a good thing though. It keeps me in check, if I were always feeling the way I feel when I kill, who knows what stupid mistakes I would make. I would feel too invincible. Therefore, hubris, and I wouldn't prepare as well as I do.

The picture of that cell enters my mind again.

I sigh and roll out of bed. The previous night had felt so good. The power I felt course through my veins, it was thrilling. I can't ever help myself once my predator mode kicks in. A new person, the right person, takes over and I just sit by and watch.

It feels so good.

The urge to kill again enters my mind.

No! I think to myself. Don't do it. It's too dangerous.

I suppose it will clear a little when I start the hunt for my next target. The studying of their mind-grating habits. What they do on the weekends, how much homework do they get done, do they have any distinguishable pattern in their lives at all? There are very few times that I actually change targets in the year. But sometimes I see something of myself in them, their patterns, how they eat, their family lives. If there are any who show some semblance of a structured life, it seems to snap through me. The desire to remove them from society dissipates and I change course.

This is going to be a long summer.

***

I am sitting in my office just staring at the black computer screen. Another school year, and more of the same. I sigh, annoyance was one feeling that came all too easily to me. But, my mind told me, another year means, another target.

Ah, and that means more things to do, to fill up the endless space until June comes back once more. I swivel around in my chair, and the warning bell for class chimes out in the hall. I watch as students pass outside the door, looking for potential candidates. I don't always choose from the school. Sometimes I travel. It would be too risky to kill from one school every year. There are times I volunteer at shelters, or sub for teachers at other schools. Either way, I still find a way to kill. It's a need that cannot be suppressed.

My favorite targets are always the delinquents or bullies. I guess they remind me of the times when I couldn't stand up for myself. When I was the weak student, and they were the powerful ones. But now I could do anything to any one of them that I want. Just like how I dealt with my father.

That thought stopped me cold. Don't think about it! I hiss to myself. It's dangerous. I shake my head to clear it, and force myself back to attention. Thinking about my father could end up disastrous.

Targets, thinks of targets. I force my thoughts onto them. I’m sure one of them will end up with me in June. A small smirk plays at the edges of my lips. And the hunter within me purrs with pleasure.

As the student herd begins to trickle out, my focus narrows. The later a student is to class the bigger the potential they have to be pooled into a list of potential victims. It starts that way every year, the tardy students, which filters through to homework, and then personal hygiene, and then to personality. Until I have one student, the one who makes the cogs in my mind scream in agony as I watch them with their horrible habits.

I shudder in my seat. Just the thought of those dirty, unorganized teenagers makes me squirm.

The final bell rings all too soon, and I am just about to rise from my seat when she walks by my door.

Her air, her stride, her confidence. I can read the look of pleasure on her face as she felt the control she has at being late. She is tall, slim, and pale. Her black hair flows down her back in a sheet, and waves out softly behind her. She clutches her books tightly to her chest, and marches purposefully, straight into my classroom.

I don't have to look at the class roster to know who that is. I have never seen her before, so it isn't hard to guess that she is the new transfer student.

Lila Turner.

I stand up out of my chair and begin to walk to class. She is a troubled student: an orphan, in and out of foster homes, and a serial runaway. We were told all of this in a faculty meeting, and warned about her behavior. Nobody wants her, but she seems at complete ease with that idea; with the smirk still on her face as she sits at the front of the room.

I begin to take role, but this time I hardly notice the late students, as she and I watch each other. When I reach the end of the list, she winks at me, and pulls out her drawing utensils.

I know what she is, and she knows me. We are the same. Cold, calculating, and dangerous.

We are the predators in this room, and we are sizing each other up.

The only question I have about her is, will she be my next target? Or do I have a new ally?

I stop myself at that thought...Do I want to teach Lila? What do I want to teach her? How to control herself? Or even worse, how to deal with it? These thoughts swim through my head.

What would it be like to share my secret with someone? And not just anyone, someone who understands the need, and the urge, and the rage.

If anything else, I just need to talk to her. Because I can't ignore her, she knows me like I know her. She's a threat to me, no matter what.

With a pleasant expression masking my confusion, and...what? Fear? I walk up to Lila. Not surprisingly, she's sitting quietly by herself sketching in charcoal. I walk over and see that she's depicting a fallen angel trying to stand, but it seems like her broken wings keep her from rising fully. It was both beautiful and haunting at the same time.

“Hello Lila,” I say soothingly, and quietly. “You are new here.”

“And you are not.” she responds brusquely. I smile to myself suppressing annoyance, so observant.

“I just want to let you know that I have taken a special interest in you. I have noticed that you seem to posses certain...traits.” Her hand pauses over a wing, and she looks up at me. Her black eyes bore into mine. “And I am more than willing to help you cultivate those gifts; for you and I seem to share them. And I have had many years of experience with these things. I'm sure I could be of some help.” Now my green eyes bore into hers. A warning, don't mess with me.

She watches me for a few seconds, then smiles back. “I guess it all depends on what you have to show me. Will I think it's worth my time? Or not?” Then she's back to her drawing and ignores me completely.

As I walk back to my desk, I think to myself, Oh yes, I have my target for this year. The only difference is, I still have no idea what to do with her.

***

I have been watching Lila for a few months now. September melted into October which then moved on to November; now, conferences have arrived. I wonder if she will show. I should have known that fellow predators never pass up a chance to take on a rival.

I wish I knew more about her, but she is nothing but a black mist to me. The other students are always beacons of light in what their lives are like. I could tell almost anything about a student by watching them and listening. But Lila is as silent and mysterious as ever. I have never been so curious before.

She walks into the gym with the same confidence that she had on that first day of school. My lips twitches just the littlest bit in satisfaction. Maybe now I’ll get the answers I want. I see her glance around the tables, her eyes shift and dart in her search to locate me. When she spots me, she smiles and moves on; she doesn't directly come to my table. So I watch her interact with the rest of the people in the gym. She doesn't speak to anyone, nor do they speak to her. It's like she's a ghost, invisible to everyone but me. But I can feel her disdain for them, the looks she gives any person who comes too close, the way she stiffens if brushed against. Human contact is not something she wants.

I sit straighter, this is it. Anticipation, much like what I feel when a kill tingles within me. I have never had such an even opponent before.

“Miss Monroe,” she whispers. “such a pleasure to see you.”

“And the same to you.” I say as I watch her lower herself fluidly into the chair across from me.

We eye each other for a few moments, she clasps her hands in front of her, and we just continue to stare. Her blue eyes, piercing my green ones.

“So,” I start, I can feel the tension snap as my voice breaks the silence between us. “Why did you come here?”

“Aren't you curious about me? I can tell I fascinate you. You have never seen another person like yourself. We are the same. Smart, devious, dangerous.” she pauses, her voice lowers, to a whisper, “Without a conscious, without a soul.”

I laugh lightly, “I don't believe in souls.”

“Of course you do,” she laughs as well, defiant. I don't like being contradicted. “You kill because you have a soul.”

I lurch, my mask has fallen away, I pick myself up and try to regain my composure.

“Kill?” I repeat.

“Yes,” she answers, “You kill to try to repair the rip in your soul. Just like I want to. I have a rip as well.” her voice is calm and cool, as she points to her chest. “In fact, I was born this way. I have never been content, or happy, unless I was hurting something.” she now speaks in clipped, angry tones, and she leans in close to my face. “But you weren't born this way, you were made. Made in blood. Just how that happened specifically, I have yet to find out. But I’m almost there.” she leans away and smiles, her hand comes up to her face and she strokes her cheek in thought. “Because you fascinate me just as much as I fascinate you. I may be disturbed, but I’m also a whiz at computers. It really is amazing at just how much of you is floating in space.” her hand flits in the air as she speaks.

I sit there, and for the first time in my life, I’m speechless. I can't think of anything clever to say or think of a threat that will scare her off. She's on her own trail now, and nothing will distract her from the scent. She's now discovered the thrill of the hunt, and I am completely cornered.

I stare at the table, what am I to do? I hear her snort in amusement, and she rises from her seat.

“Have a nice day Miss Monroe,” she mutters in a sweet voice.

But I barely notice her parting, for I am raging within, how dare this little girl threaten me, and win?!

I have never felt exposed before. I keep thinking that Lila has the upper hand here. That she would want to reveal my true self to the school. The cell enters my head again. No, I can't associate with her. She's too much a threat to me. But, how am I going to deal with her? She's much too smart, and much too aware of me to fall for my usual tricks.

I have also, never felt so helpless. Maybe I'm more human than I thought. I'm not supposed to be feeling any of this...what is happening to me? Am I going insane regardless? Was this really all it takes? I always saw myself as cool, and even headed. That in the face of any problem, I could stoically take it on and defeat it.

Gone is my cool predatory self, and my patterns and habits. Now I’m turning into a paranoid jumble of nerves. I'm losing everything it feels like. And all because of her. No, this has to end, now. She's a risk, there's no waiting for June now. No coaching her, no bonding. I don't need anyone to share my secret with, I do just fine, if not better, on my own.

***

I rise from my desk and look at the time. It's 9:30 at night, school and any other functions have long since ended and I am alone. I soak in the absolute silence with pleasure. Here, I can think, and start to re-rationalize my thoughts. I love being in my hunting grounds late at night, the silence makes it a perfect spot for thinking.

But just as I turn to leave, I see a haughty, black silhouette blocking my escape. My heart stops, my breath hitches, my mouth dries. How did she get here? And so quietly? I begin to fear, I have met my match.

“Miss Monroe?” she asks in a sweet voice, stepping into my office. “I just wanted to let you know that I have thought about what you said that first day of school. About my certain...traits.” She continues forward, and I back away. “And I think you're right. I do need to do something about them. I believe, cultivating was your word. And I so do want to cultivate. I want...” she walks up to me, her voice quiet, her steps light. “I want to cultivate them, right now. You've opened up a whole new world to me, and I don't ever want stop.”

Snick!

A switchblade clicks out and I see the flash of the blade in the dimmed light. I swallow.

Then she laughs, long and high. The sound would almost be considered beautiful if not for the threat she made against me. Now I feel my killer kick in, and finally I feel the correct reaction.

I grab her arm and pull her close to my face, the point of the blade presses against my belly, enraging me further, “You forget little girl,” I hiss. “I have years of experience over you. I know things that you could never dream to think. I know how to deal with little pricks like you. I've dealt with them my whole life. And don't even think for one moment that I won't end you like I have all the others. All you teenagers, you're all robotic drones. It's never hard to just flick off the switch with any of you.”

I waited for her response and she just giggled, “You forget, that drones, they may be your usual type. But I am no drone. Don't for one minute think, that I don't know what you're up to.”

She wrenched her arm out of my hand and walked out, never once looking back.

My lip quivered and I snarled silently. I almost went for the hunting knife I kept in the false bottom of my desk drawer. But thankfully years of practice and restraint kept me from slicing her up right there, in the hallways.

As I left that night, my mind churned up idea after idea on how I will end Lila Turner.

***

“I didn't think you would show.” I state as I hear her feet on the crunchy leaves. This show down is finally going to play itself out. Finally, we are going to end this tonight.

I turn and see her standing in the moonlight, another full moon tonight. And it shines with a brilliance that makes my dead heart stir within my empty chest.

She laughs quietly. “I knew what your motives were when you asked me out here. And you knew that I knew, but I wasn't going to miss this opportunity. I have a chance here, I have a chance to spread my wings and take flight into something that could really work for me.”

“What do you mean?”

Now I see that she carries a backpack. The grip on the knife in my hand tightens.

“Well Celia Lynn Monroe,” she answers using my full name, I can feel my hands numb at the sound of it.

“It seems like you have overcome a lot in your days.”

She did it, just like I feared she would. My past is now becoming part of my present.

I can feel a box that I have shut away in my mind begin to shake, and the locks are starting to fall away. The only way I have kept myself sane, is starting to fall away.

She begins to rifle through her backpack and pulls out a stack of papers; they look like official documents and newspaper clippings.

I swallow, feeling my past rise up in front of me like the bile in my throat.

“Celia Lynn Monroe,” she repeats. “You had quite a past. A little sister, lets see, what was her name again?”

“Jamie...” I whisper as she says it. I see her face, young and happy. Her cheeks round and full as she smiles. Little Jamie, only ten when she died. When she died because of me.

“Little Jamie Olivia Monroe.” Lila's mocking voice breaks through my memories. And I can feel my knees weakening, how does she have so much power over me?

“Don't-don't you talk about her!” I almost beg instead of demand.

But Lila just smiles and I see her teeth glow white in the night; then she continues, “Little Jamie was in some sort of accident wasn't she? The night of July 10^th, 1992, you were 16 and little Jamie was 10. You were supposed to be watching her. But what happened instead...”

I watch in my head as I remember the night that changed me forever. The moonlight streamed in the house as I watched a late night movie with the lights off. Then I heard the squeal of tires outside the house, followed by a crash. I ran out of the house to see what had happened.

Jamie was crumpled on the street just outside our house. Why she was out there, I’ll never know. All I do know, was that I was supposed to make sure she was in bed, and not in the street. Blood trickled out of her ears and nose, and shone just like the blood of all my other victims. I looked for the driver, but they were long gone.

There I stood, alone, in the dark street, lit only by the moon.

The time flashed by faster now, my mother's depression: I could hear her crying late into the night, and my father whispering to her. I could feel his looks of hatred behind my back. I knew he blamed me for what had happened to Jamie. I didn't know how to handle any of it. My mother soon fell victim to her grief and committed suicide by a drug overdose. Then it was just me, and him.

After Jamie, and then my mother, my father turned to alcohol for his medicine. And in his rages he would beat me, and blame me for their deaths.

“It's your fault! It's your fault they're dead! You killed them!” He would scream and slap me. I tried to hide in my room, but he removed the locks from the door, so I was at his complete mercy.

“And then one night, six months later...” Lila continues.

I broke. I was trying to put dinner together, chopping up some carrots for soup, when I just couldn't take it anymore. I didn't do it on purpose really. Nothing was planned, it just seemed to happen. He walked up behind me, drunken and slurring his words. I don't even remember what he said, I just whipped around with knife in hand, my arm out in front of me. The knife caught his throat.

He collapsed to the floor, clutching his bleeding neck. It wasn't deep enough to do any real harm right away, but I had become transfixed. I now had the power over him. I now had all the cards in my hands. I didn't think I could ever feel this way. I looked at the blood soaked blade and back to my father.

“Well why are just standing there you stupid bitch?!” he gasped.

And I asked myself the same question. But for different reasons. As I leaned down towards him with my blade extended, I felt someone new come to me. Someone new, born within me. With one quick motion, I ended my father's life. At that time I couldn't fathom the power that flushed through me. I loved the feeling; it had become my drug. Since then, my killer has never left me.

Until now.

But I couldn't rejoice for long, I quickly had to change the scene. I made it look like a home invasion and was put into foster care and saw therapist after therapist; but I was never the same again.

“You killed him. That much is so obvious. But I don't how many you've taken after that; but that doesn't matter.” Lila chuckles. Once again cracking through my memories. Memories I had sealed in my own version of Pandora's box. That night, when I had killed my father, I put all of those events away, knowing that they would ruin me.

“Why teenagers? Why not old creeps like your father?” she inquired.

“It's all about satisfying a need, but keeping as far away from my past as possible.” I croak.

Lila nods, and looks up at the moon in thought.

My memories come at me with a crushing blow. I sink to my knees. Oh Jamie, I’m so sorry. I know you would never have approved of me now. What have I done? I see her face, her innocent face. What if I had made her my target? Or, if someone else had?

And for the first time in memory. I cry.

I know this is exactly what Lila wants. I can feel her gloating from here.

“OK,” I tell her. “You've won.” I gasp between sobs. “So do it!”

But she laughs, “I'm not going to do anything.”

That one statement was worse than any bullet, or blade could ever have been. She is by far worse than I could ever be. She's not going to kill me. She has opened old wounds, and now, she's going to let them fester. I continue to sob wet tears, and they soak the leaves that were once my killing grounds. I reach for my hunting knife.

And with one last breath, and Jamie on my thoughts, I plunge the knife into my chest.

***

There's nothing like freshly spilled blood in the moonlight. Celia was my first; I never knew I could wield so much power over someone. That I could take all that they lived for and shatter it at their feet with just a few memories, or words. That's what I have done. I shattered her. And she killed herself. I didn't have to lift one finger either.

I smile, this is going to be fun. A challenge. Can I kill people without ever touching them? I turn and leave her body as the blood continues to pool. Thank you Celia, you really did help me cultivate my traits.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

Ha, what bullshit.