[ic] charloft: Friday 5/20
from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!
Give us a list of perfect moments.
I don't like to complain about things, I really don't. At least, I don't like to complain to people. For starters, I don't really have very many to complain to. I have one person. If I complained to him, I think he'd say something like, "Kid, we all had shitty lives. You had a tough break, but dwelling on it won't get you anywhere." And he's not saying that because he doesn't care or is unsympathetic or anything. What he is, actually, is right. But sometimes I get really sad about things that have happened that definitely shouldn't have happened and I just want to talk about it. I guess that's why I have a diary, but the diary doesn't talk back. Anyway, it doesn't matter, so much, what he says because, in the end, he'll almost always hug me.
I don't know how it is that I always get caught up trying to talk about something that I don't actually mean to be talking about. This was supposed to be a list. And a list of good, at that. My point was supposed to be that I don't like to complain, but that doesn't change the fact that there's been a lot of bad that's happened to me. The bad outweighs the good, overall, but that's only because I'm not done have good moments in the future. But this list I'm trying to make is of good things that have already happened. Not even just good things, but perfect things.
It's going to be a short list.
1. Once, Blind Mag came to my house. There are all sorts of things that you would think should have made it not-perfect, but as one, isolated event that happened in my life, it was. Utterly perfect. I was stupid and tired and had, I guess, scared myself having gotten so far away from the house so many times in not even twenty-four hours, so I didn't know what to say at all. Also, I mean, I don't know how it works for "normal" people, but it's kind of hard to think of anything to say to beautiful, famous people you worship and love, at all, when they just show up at random at your house. Except, apparently, things you had drilled into you when you were a kid as ways to handle people you don't actually know coming to the door. Those were really easy to think of. But despite the fact that I was probably really rude and she seemed really sad, most of the time, and was saying things like, "Shilo, I knew your mom and I'm your godmother," I think it was perfect. She wanted to know about me and listen to what I actually had to say and I wanted to tell her everything and I should have, but all I could think of was how much trouble I was going to get into if Dad came home and a) saw Mag, especially if everything she told me was true (which it was because Mag wouldn't lie), b) caught me out of my room, and c) caught me talking to Mag.
Which, I mean, he did come home and find out all those things, but before he did, she told me she wanted to know me and for me to be happy and free. My dad ruined everything, but, for the rest of my life, I'm going to pretend that the little pockets of time when I wasn't freaking out, when Dad wasn't home as perfect. If not just because Mag was there and everything she did was perfect, always.
2. My first chocolate. See, GraveRobber brings me lots of things to try. He knows that my dad never knew how to cook and always cooked the same, stupid, boring things over and over again and all of it tasted like cardboard or vomit. (I wish I was kidding, but I am not. As someone who's had to throw up a million times, I think I know the flavor by now.)
Anyway. All the ads and propaganda that gets played around Valentine's Day always made me assume it was a holiday about people looking really "hot" (or whatever GeneCo wants you to think is looking "really" "hot") and having sex with each other. I guess it used to be less about just sex and more about affection and love. People would bring each other flowers and heart-shaped cards and boxes of chocolate. I guess maybe they had sex after all of that, but probably as an expression of how much they loved each other and not just because GeneCo is running those stupid ads with Amber telling you what bodypart ought to be replaced to "ensure" a "happy" Valentine's Day. (UGH. SO GROSS.)
This year, GraveRobber brought me a box of chocolates and not just because he assumed he could have sex with me as soon as I ate them. (I think.) Lots of people, I guess, don't really like these boxes because there isn't anything to indicate which chocolate is which and they're all different. Some people, I guess, don't like raspberry cream or coconut or anything else, but I think they're all great. But I didn't know anything about it, at the time, because Dad always said that sweets were bad for me and would aggravate my attacks. Turns out, that's not true at all because GraveRobber picked me out the perfect piece (it was the one solid chocolate in the whole box!) and I bit into it and it was perfect.
Everthing, actually, that he brings me to eat is perfect. But chocolate is the most perfect because I know it's not made out of anything gross. Tacos...those might be gross. Chocolate is not gross because it is made out of pure delicious and definitely not cat meat. (He still won't tell me if he was joking about that.)
3. Sometimes, when you're just sitting around with someone, talking about, oh, I don't know, everything, you might start to ramble on about something and let your words get away from you. Not in the way that you're embarrassing yourself, but just kind of in the way that you can't stop talking and what you're saying might not be very interesting, but you're still saying it because no one's told you to be quiet or go to your room or to not be so silly. Even if you do find yourself again, though, in the middle of your story that got away from you, it doesn't matter because nothing is more important than being interrupted by someone putting their drink down on the table and leaning in to kiss the words right out of your mouth.
It happened like that, the first time.
...
See, I knew that would be a very short list. But it's okay because I know I still have a long time to find perfect moments. I don't ever have to worry about dying without being kissed or without getting to meet Blind Mag or without eating food that isn't something horrible my dad threw together. Even if I was really sick, if I was dying, if I did have a blood disease, or even if it was just that I have too much poison soaked into my body to get out, I guess it probably wouldn't be horrible to only have the three perfect moments that I've had. It's better than some people have and it's better than I ever thought I'd get.
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!
Give us a list of perfect moments.
I don't like to complain about things, I really don't. At least, I don't like to complain to people. For starters, I don't really have very many to complain to. I have one person. If I complained to him, I think he'd say something like, "Kid, we all had shitty lives. You had a tough break, but dwelling on it won't get you anywhere." And he's not saying that because he doesn't care or is unsympathetic or anything. What he is, actually, is right. But sometimes I get really sad about things that have happened that definitely shouldn't have happened and I just want to talk about it. I guess that's why I have a diary, but the diary doesn't talk back. Anyway, it doesn't matter, so much, what he says because, in the end, he'll almost always hug me.
I don't know how it is that I always get caught up trying to talk about something that I don't actually mean to be talking about. This was supposed to be a list. And a list of good, at that. My point was supposed to be that I don't like to complain, but that doesn't change the fact that there's been a lot of bad that's happened to me. The bad outweighs the good, overall, but that's only because I'm not done have good moments in the future. But this list I'm trying to make is of good things that have already happened. Not even just good things, but perfect things.
It's going to be a short list.
1. Once, Blind Mag came to my house. There are all sorts of things that you would think should have made it not-perfect, but as one, isolated event that happened in my life, it was. Utterly perfect. I was stupid and tired and had, I guess, scared myself having gotten so far away from the house so many times in not even twenty-four hours, so I didn't know what to say at all. Also, I mean, I don't know how it works for "normal" people, but it's kind of hard to think of anything to say to beautiful, famous people you worship and love, at all, when they just show up at random at your house. Except, apparently, things you had drilled into you when you were a kid as ways to handle people you don't actually know coming to the door. Those were really easy to think of. But despite the fact that I was probably really rude and she seemed really sad, most of the time, and was saying things like, "Shilo, I knew your mom and I'm your godmother," I think it was perfect. She wanted to know about me and listen to what I actually had to say and I wanted to tell her everything and I should have, but all I could think of was how much trouble I was going to get into if Dad came home and a) saw Mag, especially if everything she told me was true (which it was because Mag wouldn't lie), b) caught me out of my room, and c) caught me talking to Mag.
Which, I mean, he did come home and find out all those things, but before he did, she told me she wanted to know me and for me to be happy and free. My dad ruined everything, but, for the rest of my life, I'm going to pretend that the little pockets of time when I wasn't freaking out, when Dad wasn't home as perfect. If not just because Mag was there and everything she did was perfect, always.
2. My first chocolate. See, GraveRobber brings me lots of things to try. He knows that my dad never knew how to cook and always cooked the same, stupid, boring things over and over again and all of it tasted like cardboard or vomit. (I wish I was kidding, but I am not. As someone who's had to throw up a million times, I think I know the flavor by now.)
Anyway. All the ads and propaganda that gets played around Valentine's Day always made me assume it was a holiday about people looking really "hot" (or whatever GeneCo wants you to think is looking "really" "hot") and having sex with each other. I guess it used to be less about just sex and more about affection and love. People would bring each other flowers and heart-shaped cards and boxes of chocolate. I guess maybe they had sex after all of that, but probably as an expression of how much they loved each other and not just because GeneCo is running those stupid ads with Amber telling you what bodypart ought to be replaced to "ensure" a "happy" Valentine's Day. (UGH. SO GROSS.)
This year, GraveRobber brought me a box of chocolates and not just because he assumed he could have sex with me as soon as I ate them. (I think.) Lots of people, I guess, don't really like these boxes because there isn't anything to indicate which chocolate is which and they're all different. Some people, I guess, don't like raspberry cream or coconut or anything else, but I think they're all great. But I didn't know anything about it, at the time, because Dad always said that sweets were bad for me and would aggravate my attacks. Turns out, that's not true at all because GraveRobber picked me out the perfect piece (it was the one solid chocolate in the whole box!) and I bit into it and it was perfect.
Everthing, actually, that he brings me to eat is perfect. But chocolate is the most perfect because I know it's not made out of anything gross. Tacos...those might be gross. Chocolate is not gross because it is made out of pure delicious and definitely not cat meat. (He still won't tell me if he was joking about that.)
3. Sometimes, when you're just sitting around with someone, talking about, oh, I don't know, everything, you might start to ramble on about something and let your words get away from you. Not in the way that you're embarrassing yourself, but just kind of in the way that you can't stop talking and what you're saying might not be very interesting, but you're still saying it because no one's told you to be quiet or go to your room or to not be so silly. Even if you do find yourself again, though, in the middle of your story that got away from you, it doesn't matter because nothing is more important than being interrupted by someone putting their drink down on the table and leaning in to kiss the words right out of your mouth.
It happened like that, the first time.
...
See, I knew that would be a very short list. But it's okay because I know I still have a long time to find perfect moments. I don't ever have to worry about dying without being kissed or without getting to meet Blind Mag or without eating food that isn't something horrible my dad threw together. Even if I was really sick, if I was dying, if I did have a blood disease, or even if it was just that I have too much poison soaked into my body to get out, I guess it probably wouldn't be horrible to only have the three perfect moments that I've had. It's better than some people have and it's better than I ever thought I'd get.