Absence Makes the Heart Feel Heavier
I am writing this to declare that I am alive, but I am not pleased with myself.
I’m writing from Dublin, Ireland; a place I did not expect to find myself on this trip, but I came nonetheless.
I apologize for not writing, for not posting, and for not being an active participant in the LotS_Femslash community. To say that it has weighed heavily on my mind is an understatement I doubt anyone but myself could fully believe or understand. And, only more so since the news of my story having been nominated for an award has reached me. Then once again redoubled after learning I had come in second, ahead of a story I have sat in awe of when reading in past, and even still - and in spite of my failures to update in months and months.
I offer no excuses, because they would all be flimsy and weak as tissue paper. To claim the temperamental mind of a writer oversteps my bounds, my abilities, and any rightful description of self-perception based in reality.
This is a heartfelt apology, to those who read my writing, who enjoyed my story and whom I assured I would promptly continue. I have let you down, and I am actually heartsick for it. To say that the people who may be reading this have been like angels to me when I most needed them during this crazy trip of mine, is no empty flattery from me. If you doubt my sincerity, or doubt you may count yourself among them, ask me how I’ve come to think this and I will further explain.
Though I have no excuses, if you wish to know what has happened (in slightly shortened form), read ahead. I shall place the bizarre tale under a cut.
When I last left any sign of life on LJ, it was in the form of little drabbles based on Latin quotes as prompts. The last one, the project and challenge I set for myself FAR from complete and one I do very much regret abandoning so early on (and at all), was posted far back on December 18th. This was while I was still living in my apartment in Venice, and just a few brief days away from my leaving to meet my family in Vienna. And, right around the same time, some very absurd events started to occur all at once.
For example? Disassembled furniture kept appearing in my apartment every time I stepped out. Every time I stepped into my kitchen when I came home, more and more of it would be filled with the oddest things, like humidifiers the size of R2-D2. Eventually there were four of them. When finally I came home one day and found a broken-glass patio-table taking up what was left of my living room and resting on part of my couch (so that now it could barely fit a full-grown person sitting on it)… I called my landlord, or at least the guy I was renting from.
The same day, my craptastic little WiFi-USB thingy stopped working. It stopped working because once again my landlord didn’t pay the bill. So, when he arrived, we had much to discuss. In the end he assured me that all the furniture would be removed by the time I got back from Vienna with my family. Why? Because he’d rented out the bedroom in my apartment to an Australian couple. Yes; my bedroom. In my one bedroom apartment. In fact, he’d rented it out for the same week that I was supposed to be packing up my life and leaving Italy onto my next (as yet undecided) country. FML doesn’t even cover it.
He then alluded to the fact that I could either ‘deal with it’ and sleep on the couch, or pay all the utility bills; which before I rented, we’d agreed would be included in the price I paid month-to-month. Sneaky Italians. In a sick way, it’s kind of part of what I love about them. I chose the couch.
When I got off of my 14-hour train ride to Vienna from Venice, I stood on the platform and looked up at the signs to see which direction was the main part of the station… and realized I didn’t know even a single word in German. Not “Hello” or “please” or “thank you”… I didn’t know the word for hotel or taxi or anything! And it was kind of way to late, obviously, to realize this in time to do anything about it. And my family’s plane wouldn’t be landing for a while yet. I just followed the crowds, made it to a cab, handed the driver a piece of paper with the name of the hotel on it, and had faith.
Luckily my mother loves her comfort, so the place was somewhat well known. Like the Plaza is to New York? This place was to Vienna. No exaggeration.
But when I got there to check in, I found out a few interesting things… the 8 major airports of Europe had been shut down due to a snow-storm, and over 2,000 passengers had been stranded, along with over 9,000 pieces of luggage. So, ALL of my family was trapped once they landed in Europe. During the more than 2 weeks they were visiting? They never once saw a single piece of their luggage. But we didn’t even know it was that bad yet. We just knew that we had tickets to one of the most important operas the second night we were in Vienna, and they only had what they wore on the plane. Can you spell FML?
All the X-Mus presents had been lost with the luggage, and everyone was bitter and jealous, very vocally so, at me for having all my stuff because I came by train from Venice. So, those 5 days in Vienna were VERY uncomfortable. We did manage to have some fun in spite of it all. My mother and sister did rather enjoy shopping for all new clothes for the trip.
We were, however, a family of Californians, experiencing our first “Winter Wonderland” X-Mus. Some handled it better than others. Oddly, my sister who now lives in Manhattan? Probably handled it the worst. Go figure.
I went to the opera, I played in the snow, I ate too much fried meat and potatoes, then we all went back to Venice a few days before X-Mus. As promised, my apartment was cleared of crap by the time I got back. I still didn’t know how to tell my parents my landlord had double-rented out my apartment. My mom is sort of this Super-Litigator, and I didn’t want her trying to get tangled up in this in my defense. Especially since this was all completely under the table and I could have the whole thing pulled at from under me if she stirred the pot any more…
Because of the snow-storm, the normal high water (aqua-alto) that happens in Venice in Winter was… well, extreme. And where my family chose to stay near the famous Piazza San Marco? They were also in the highest level of the flood-zone… having to wear knee-high wellingtons every time they came downstairs from their rooms was not the X-Mus in Italy they’d expected. And it also made touring the famous streets from their side of the city a delicate operation.
But we all did our X-Mus shopping - sometimes in stores flooded in water above the ankles under their display tables! - and took in the sights, and (as a Jewish Family…?) went to Midnight Mass - which had been moved up to 9:15 due to predicted record-high aqua-alto - and then we all went to bed. Only to be awoken at 6am by the sound of the high water sirens that blared directly across the tiny courtyard from their hotel.
The whole time my 19-year-old brother was moodier than a rhino with PMS, my 25/26-year-old sister never stopped playing Angry Birds, and I had to walk (run) 40 minutes from the furthest end of the city and back about 2-4 times a day (both ways) to get from my apartment to their hotel. I had calves of steel from all those stairs and bridges, baby! I probably could’ve cracked a walnut behind my knee!
Apparently, that Australian couple that my bedroom had been rented to? Had NO IDEA I’d be there. They also had no idea that they were staying in MY apartment. They also missed their flight, so they didn’t appear on the day they were supposed to and I was lead to believe (thank for that, Nino, by the way…) that they probably weren’t coming at all. So, when I got home, after my sister’s birthday shortly before my family left, after walking the full distance of the city at almost 2am, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to plop down in my own bed… when I threw open the door to my bedroom and flipped on the light? Hearing the shriek of two people from under my covers was… well, “jarring” is being polite.
They seemed like nice enough people, but they never talked. To the point where after a while I was sure that at least the wife was mute, or possibly deaf. I really do mean never. They stayed for almost a week, and except for that initial screaming thing? They said goodbye to me on the fourth day when they were on their way out of the apartment and I sat in my new “bedroom” (read: couch), having coffee. That was the first time I heard them speak since then. No, that is not an exaggeration. We were all so hyper-aware of each other it was painful. I knew this was not that “romantic New Year’s vacation in Venice” they were promised, expecting to be renting a private, one bedroom apartment… sans 20-something-backpacker living on the couch… I wanted to feel awful, but… it was my apartment!
I ended up deciding to go to Amsterdam, and left on January 3rd. I stayed there for a month, at an amazing hostel called CocoMama, run by 4 girls, all under the age of 28. They managed bands while they were on the road before opening the hostel, and said they wanted to open a place they would’ve liked to have stayed at when they were traveling. It was incredible! Hardest working people under the age of 30 I’ve ever met!
I wish I could’ve stayed there longer, I ended up becoming really attached to that place, the girls, and their cat Jyope… but I just couldn’t afford to stay there much longer, and no one wanted to rent to me for longer than a month and yet less than 6 months. So, I had to go.
But, before I left, I visited a Coffee Shop called “The Doors” (named after the band), but smoked no pot. Instead I taught a group of 29-year-old Argentineans how to clean, fill, pack, light and clear a bong for the first time. And before you say anything? I have never smoked pot before in my life. I have, however, gone to a very Hippy-culture based college, so that was a part of my education.
I also went to a Live Sex Show, with about 35 other people from my hostel - which I NEVER want to do again! It was TRAUMATIZING!... I learned how to make Dutch Pancakes, ate lots of waffles and fries in paper cones, and did not feel bad at all that I didn’t go to the Anne Frank house. Or the Van Gogh museum-his 6 most famous pieces of art were on tour, and thus not there.
I decided to go to Ireland, the land of the not-Jewish half of my family, starting on February 3rd. Little did I know, I had over-stayed my tourist visa for continental Europe by about 12 days. Then, upon arriving at the gate-check for Aer-Lingus, I was informed I was going to be deported from Amsterdam…
They eventually let me catch my flight, saying (quite plainly) that they were letting me go because I was already there to catch a flight out of the Netherlands, and if when I landed in Dublin, the Irish didn’t like it? Well, then I was their problem and they could deport me. Now, the way the Irish half of my family became American was by being deported about 160 years ago by the English; for teaching Gaelic to the Irish people, which under the British Empire’s rule was an act of sedition. So, my getting deported from Ireland AGAIN? It would’ve been the ultimate Irish-shame on my family.
Now completely freaked out, I called the US Embassy in Dublin, and asked their advice and help after explaining the situation. The lady said I’d need all kind of things in order to convince the Irish Boarder Control to let me stay; a notarized bank statement proving I had enough money to support myself, a pre-purchased plane ticket proving I didn’t plan to stay indefinitely, proof of accommodation once I landed in Ireland… I told the woman, “I’m in the middle of an airport and my flight boards in 20 minutes - how am I supposed to get these things?” She said, “find a way” and to leave the airport if necessary. I told her if I did, Interpol would stop me, and how the hell was I supposed to get a notarized bank-statement when it was 3am California-time and my bank was nearly 7,000-miles away? She said “find a way”…
Of course, when I landed, the guy at the customs window asked “So whaddid ya do back home?” and just stamped my passport… I must’ve looked like a scared kid trying to smuggle a kilo of smack or something I was so scared, but he just laughed. He saw my stamp saying I had over-stayed, and told me, “Make sure you leave in time this time, okay lass?”… when I walked out of customs, I saw another tourist visa good for 90 days in the Republic of Ireland. I’ll be sending the US Embassy of Dublin my therapy bills, and for the appointment with the cardiologist after I go home, thank you very much!
I now have a ticket back to California, departing May 1st - did my math this time! Won’t get deported! However, for the past three and a half months, I’ve been living in Hostels. Which, while I have enjoyed for the most part? Have not been very conducive to getting any writing done. I have no seen or stayed in a place with a desk (or desk-like apparatus) since the start of February. And when I go to places that have tables and such (such as Starbucks, my closest one being the one next to Trinity College Green), there is not an environment advantageous to getting any writing done!
I would KILL for my typewriter, or any typewriter right now! Especially a manual one… I’ve learned, during this trip actually, the value of the typewriters I left at home. When you’re struggling? A computer or laptop isn’t always the best thing to be using. It does too much… you’re stuck for a moment on what adjective you want to use, and then you see a line marking a misspelled word or incorrect grammar, and you go to fix it, losing your rhythm. Or you get stuck on some dialog, or how to transition the scene, and after a while you hear a ‘ping!’ from your email, or g-chat, or whatever, and POOF! You’re gone, project abandoned, flow completely interrupted. Or you think “I’ll just check my facebook quickly” or LJ, or whatever, and next thing you know you’re watching videos of kittens riding robotic vacuume-cleaners or gymnastics accidents on YouTube for the next hour until you’re exhausted and go to bed.
With a typewriter, you don’t have that. It’s a single-function word-processor. You get stuck on a verb? You stay focused. You don’t even get that whole “that blinking curser is mocking me” feeling (not that I ever think that… <.<), the machine just waits. My electric one that got my grandfather through law-school, on the GI-Bill after WWII, has this rhythmic churning-hum that I find soothing… But my manual one just sits in quiet anticipation, like it’s as eager to find out what I may come up with as I am. I’d go out and find a new one to use until I get back home, but I don’t think they’d let me bring it as a carry-on (and I bet it would be expensive, not to mention risky, to travel as checked luggage).
Instead I’ve found myself writing letters, some to friends I have made here on LJ, most to family and friends. I’ve written close to 150 just since I got to Ireland, by my count, and have even recently started keeping a Moleskine notebook (my first successful attempt to keep a journal since this trip started in October!)… I have sat down and tried to write so often, and have two pages of about a million different projects, and literally have had dreams and nightmares over my having let down such an awesome group of people… I hope I can redeem myself soon. I don’t want to leave you guys hanging, especially now, when people voted to say how much they’ve enjoyed my writing. I really don’t want to let you down.
Humble gratitude,
~AngelicSinner (Vitta)
I’m writing from Dublin, Ireland; a place I did not expect to find myself on this trip, but I came nonetheless.
I apologize for not writing, for not posting, and for not being an active participant in the LotS_Femslash community. To say that it has weighed heavily on my mind is an understatement I doubt anyone but myself could fully believe or understand. And, only more so since the news of my story having been nominated for an award has reached me. Then once again redoubled after learning I had come in second, ahead of a story I have sat in awe of when reading in past, and even still - and in spite of my failures to update in months and months.
I offer no excuses, because they would all be flimsy and weak as tissue paper. To claim the temperamental mind of a writer oversteps my bounds, my abilities, and any rightful description of self-perception based in reality.
This is a heartfelt apology, to those who read my writing, who enjoyed my story and whom I assured I would promptly continue. I have let you down, and I am actually heartsick for it. To say that the people who may be reading this have been like angels to me when I most needed them during this crazy trip of mine, is no empty flattery from me. If you doubt my sincerity, or doubt you may count yourself among them, ask me how I’ve come to think this and I will further explain.
Though I have no excuses, if you wish to know what has happened (in slightly shortened form), read ahead. I shall place the bizarre tale under a cut.
When I last left any sign of life on LJ, it was in the form of little drabbles based on Latin quotes as prompts. The last one, the project and challenge I set for myself FAR from complete and one I do very much regret abandoning so early on (and at all), was posted far back on December 18th. This was while I was still living in my apartment in Venice, and just a few brief days away from my leaving to meet my family in Vienna. And, right around the same time, some very absurd events started to occur all at once.
For example? Disassembled furniture kept appearing in my apartment every time I stepped out. Every time I stepped into my kitchen when I came home, more and more of it would be filled with the oddest things, like humidifiers the size of R2-D2. Eventually there were four of them. When finally I came home one day and found a broken-glass patio-table taking up what was left of my living room and resting on part of my couch (so that now it could barely fit a full-grown person sitting on it)… I called my landlord, or at least the guy I was renting from.
The same day, my craptastic little WiFi-USB thingy stopped working. It stopped working because once again my landlord didn’t pay the bill. So, when he arrived, we had much to discuss. In the end he assured me that all the furniture would be removed by the time I got back from Vienna with my family. Why? Because he’d rented out the bedroom in my apartment to an Australian couple. Yes; my bedroom. In my one bedroom apartment. In fact, he’d rented it out for the same week that I was supposed to be packing up my life and leaving Italy onto my next (as yet undecided) country. FML doesn’t even cover it.
He then alluded to the fact that I could either ‘deal with it’ and sleep on the couch, or pay all the utility bills; which before I rented, we’d agreed would be included in the price I paid month-to-month. Sneaky Italians. In a sick way, it’s kind of part of what I love about them. I chose the couch.
When I got off of my 14-hour train ride to Vienna from Venice, I stood on the platform and looked up at the signs to see which direction was the main part of the station… and realized I didn’t know even a single word in German. Not “Hello” or “please” or “thank you”… I didn’t know the word for hotel or taxi or anything! And it was kind of way to late, obviously, to realize this in time to do anything about it. And my family’s plane wouldn’t be landing for a while yet. I just followed the crowds, made it to a cab, handed the driver a piece of paper with the name of the hotel on it, and had faith.
Luckily my mother loves her comfort, so the place was somewhat well known. Like the Plaza is to New York? This place was to Vienna. No exaggeration.
But when I got there to check in, I found out a few interesting things… the 8 major airports of Europe had been shut down due to a snow-storm, and over 2,000 passengers had been stranded, along with over 9,000 pieces of luggage. So, ALL of my family was trapped once they landed in Europe. During the more than 2 weeks they were visiting? They never once saw a single piece of their luggage. But we didn’t even know it was that bad yet. We just knew that we had tickets to one of the most important operas the second night we were in Vienna, and they only had what they wore on the plane. Can you spell FML?
All the X-Mus presents had been lost with the luggage, and everyone was bitter and jealous, very vocally so, at me for having all my stuff because I came by train from Venice. So, those 5 days in Vienna were VERY uncomfortable. We did manage to have some fun in spite of it all. My mother and sister did rather enjoy shopping for all new clothes for the trip.
We were, however, a family of Californians, experiencing our first “Winter Wonderland” X-Mus. Some handled it better than others. Oddly, my sister who now lives in Manhattan? Probably handled it the worst. Go figure.
I went to the opera, I played in the snow, I ate too much fried meat and potatoes, then we all went back to Venice a few days before X-Mus. As promised, my apartment was cleared of crap by the time I got back. I still didn’t know how to tell my parents my landlord had double-rented out my apartment. My mom is sort of this Super-Litigator, and I didn’t want her trying to get tangled up in this in my defense. Especially since this was all completely under the table and I could have the whole thing pulled at from under me if she stirred the pot any more…
Because of the snow-storm, the normal high water (aqua-alto) that happens in Venice in Winter was… well, extreme. And where my family chose to stay near the famous Piazza San Marco? They were also in the highest level of the flood-zone… having to wear knee-high wellingtons every time they came downstairs from their rooms was not the X-Mus in Italy they’d expected. And it also made touring the famous streets from their side of the city a delicate operation.
But we all did our X-Mus shopping - sometimes in stores flooded in water above the ankles under their display tables! - and took in the sights, and (as a Jewish Family…?) went to Midnight Mass - which had been moved up to 9:15 due to predicted record-high aqua-alto - and then we all went to bed. Only to be awoken at 6am by the sound of the high water sirens that blared directly across the tiny courtyard from their hotel.
The whole time my 19-year-old brother was moodier than a rhino with PMS, my 25/26-year-old sister never stopped playing Angry Birds, and I had to walk (run) 40 minutes from the furthest end of the city and back about 2-4 times a day (both ways) to get from my apartment to their hotel. I had calves of steel from all those stairs and bridges, baby! I probably could’ve cracked a walnut behind my knee!
Apparently, that Australian couple that my bedroom had been rented to? Had NO IDEA I’d be there. They also had no idea that they were staying in MY apartment. They also missed their flight, so they didn’t appear on the day they were supposed to and I was lead to believe (thank for that, Nino, by the way…) that they probably weren’t coming at all. So, when I got home, after my sister’s birthday shortly before my family left, after walking the full distance of the city at almost 2am, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to plop down in my own bed… when I threw open the door to my bedroom and flipped on the light? Hearing the shriek of two people from under my covers was… well, “jarring” is being polite.
They seemed like nice enough people, but they never talked. To the point where after a while I was sure that at least the wife was mute, or possibly deaf. I really do mean never. They stayed for almost a week, and except for that initial screaming thing? They said goodbye to me on the fourth day when they were on their way out of the apartment and I sat in my new “bedroom” (read: couch), having coffee. That was the first time I heard them speak since then. No, that is not an exaggeration. We were all so hyper-aware of each other it was painful. I knew this was not that “romantic New Year’s vacation in Venice” they were promised, expecting to be renting a private, one bedroom apartment… sans 20-something-backpacker living on the couch… I wanted to feel awful, but… it was my apartment!
I ended up deciding to go to Amsterdam, and left on January 3rd. I stayed there for a month, at an amazing hostel called CocoMama, run by 4 girls, all under the age of 28. They managed bands while they were on the road before opening the hostel, and said they wanted to open a place they would’ve liked to have stayed at when they were traveling. It was incredible! Hardest working people under the age of 30 I’ve ever met!
I wish I could’ve stayed there longer, I ended up becoming really attached to that place, the girls, and their cat Jyope… but I just couldn’t afford to stay there much longer, and no one wanted to rent to me for longer than a month and yet less than 6 months. So, I had to go.
But, before I left, I visited a Coffee Shop called “The Doors” (named after the band), but smoked no pot. Instead I taught a group of 29-year-old Argentineans how to clean, fill, pack, light and clear a bong for the first time. And before you say anything? I have never smoked pot before in my life. I have, however, gone to a very Hippy-culture based college, so that was a part of my education.
I also went to a Live Sex Show, with about 35 other people from my hostel - which I NEVER want to do again! It was TRAUMATIZING!... I learned how to make Dutch Pancakes, ate lots of waffles and fries in paper cones, and did not feel bad at all that I didn’t go to the Anne Frank house. Or the Van Gogh museum-his 6 most famous pieces of art were on tour, and thus not there.
I decided to go to Ireland, the land of the not-Jewish half of my family, starting on February 3rd. Little did I know, I had over-stayed my tourist visa for continental Europe by about 12 days. Then, upon arriving at the gate-check for Aer-Lingus, I was informed I was going to be deported from Amsterdam…
They eventually let me catch my flight, saying (quite plainly) that they were letting me go because I was already there to catch a flight out of the Netherlands, and if when I landed in Dublin, the Irish didn’t like it? Well, then I was their problem and they could deport me. Now, the way the Irish half of my family became American was by being deported about 160 years ago by the English; for teaching Gaelic to the Irish people, which under the British Empire’s rule was an act of sedition. So, my getting deported from Ireland AGAIN? It would’ve been the ultimate Irish-shame on my family.
Now completely freaked out, I called the US Embassy in Dublin, and asked their advice and help after explaining the situation. The lady said I’d need all kind of things in order to convince the Irish Boarder Control to let me stay; a notarized bank statement proving I had enough money to support myself, a pre-purchased plane ticket proving I didn’t plan to stay indefinitely, proof of accommodation once I landed in Ireland… I told the woman, “I’m in the middle of an airport and my flight boards in 20 minutes - how am I supposed to get these things?” She said, “find a way” and to leave the airport if necessary. I told her if I did, Interpol would stop me, and how the hell was I supposed to get a notarized bank-statement when it was 3am California-time and my bank was nearly 7,000-miles away? She said “find a way”…
Of course, when I landed, the guy at the customs window asked “So whaddid ya do back home?” and just stamped my passport… I must’ve looked like a scared kid trying to smuggle a kilo of smack or something I was so scared, but he just laughed. He saw my stamp saying I had over-stayed, and told me, “Make sure you leave in time this time, okay lass?”… when I walked out of customs, I saw another tourist visa good for 90 days in the Republic of Ireland. I’ll be sending the US Embassy of Dublin my therapy bills, and for the appointment with the cardiologist after I go home, thank you very much!
I now have a ticket back to California, departing May 1st - did my math this time! Won’t get deported! However, for the past three and a half months, I’ve been living in Hostels. Which, while I have enjoyed for the most part? Have not been very conducive to getting any writing done. I have no seen or stayed in a place with a desk (or desk-like apparatus) since the start of February. And when I go to places that have tables and such (such as Starbucks, my closest one being the one next to Trinity College Green), there is not an environment advantageous to getting any writing done!
I would KILL for my typewriter, or any typewriter right now! Especially a manual one… I’ve learned, during this trip actually, the value of the typewriters I left at home. When you’re struggling? A computer or laptop isn’t always the best thing to be using. It does too much… you’re stuck for a moment on what adjective you want to use, and then you see a line marking a misspelled word or incorrect grammar, and you go to fix it, losing your rhythm. Or you get stuck on some dialog, or how to transition the scene, and after a while you hear a ‘ping!’ from your email, or g-chat, or whatever, and POOF! You’re gone, project abandoned, flow completely interrupted. Or you think “I’ll just check my facebook quickly” or LJ, or whatever, and next thing you know you’re watching videos of kittens riding robotic vacuume-cleaners or gymnastics accidents on YouTube for the next hour until you’re exhausted and go to bed.
With a typewriter, you don’t have that. It’s a single-function word-processor. You get stuck on a verb? You stay focused. You don’t even get that whole “that blinking curser is mocking me” feeling (not that I ever think that… <.<), the machine just waits. My electric one that got my grandfather through law-school, on the GI-Bill after WWII, has this rhythmic churning-hum that I find soothing… But my manual one just sits in quiet anticipation, like it’s as eager to find out what I may come up with as I am. I’d go out and find a new one to use until I get back home, but I don’t think they’d let me bring it as a carry-on (and I bet it would be expensive, not to mention risky, to travel as checked luggage).
Instead I’ve found myself writing letters, some to friends I have made here on LJ, most to family and friends. I’ve written close to 150 just since I got to Ireland, by my count, and have even recently started keeping a Moleskine notebook (my first successful attempt to keep a journal since this trip started in October!)… I have sat down and tried to write so often, and have two pages of about a million different projects, and literally have had dreams and nightmares over my having let down such an awesome group of people… I hope I can redeem myself soon. I don’t want to leave you guys hanging, especially now, when people voted to say how much they’ve enjoyed my writing. I really don’t want to let you down.
Humble gratitude,
~AngelicSinner (Vitta)