After an extensive search, I acquired the X-files season 1 on DVD and lapsed into an X-files induced coma, watching every episode in successive order, my room littered with empty yogurt and granola crunch containers as well as the occasional gatorade bottle.
 
What one has to understand is that I was the alpha geek until I went to high school. There are several dirty secrets that I hold close to me to this day, some that even my dearest friends do not know about those dark times that the ancients call, in the blackest of tongues, Middle School. Suffice to say, lurking within me, like some kind of writhing, straining creature, are thoughts and desires that one would unhesitatingly ascribe to one not well acquainted to the world of fashion, clubs, and trendy punk rock groups.
 
Therefore, not only do I watch the X-files, but I have some kind of bizarre fascination with the occult and unexplained phenomena. Don't misunderstand - I mean, I subscribe to Vogue for God's sake - but I even have an old website featuring U.F.O. abductions, Roswell, and unsubtantiated sightings. There are things in this world that desire a supernatural explanation, because all evidence to the contrary is not entirely dissuasive. I have seen lights - lights that I can't believe were swamp gas or a weather balloon. I don't consider myself particularly paranoid, but I do consider myself open minded, and I don't believe that it is beyond the realm of the probable that there is something being hidden from us. I don't believe that it is beyond the realm of the probable that, with the hundreds upon hundreds of planetary clusters and solar systems mimicking ours, there is other intelligent life capable of making contact. With so many sightings, all sharing similar characteristics, I don't believe that the entirety of this phenomena can be dismissed as a hoax. It is possible, as science has considered, that we can be tapping into some kind of collective human subconscious, something deeper and more primal than even the id where our fears of extinction and abandonment are manifested into hallucinations accompanied by a kind of psychosis, or that we are falling prey to a variety of mass hysteria. However, I find these theories inconclusive.
 
I also investigate - as many others do - the possibility that the human soul transcends and survives death. If this is probable, if, as religion qualifies, there are heavenly or devilish realms to which these souls ascend, why cannot a soul be trapped within earthly bounds? Why cannot it find not peace or damnation, and simply wander, unfulfilled and lost, where it had previously lingered? This is the ghost, and this I cannot dismiss as an entity.
 
Psychic phenomena has also been studied and documented, and much of the research remains classified. The human brain is largely a mystery, much of it being dormant and unused. It is not impossible that there contains, in these portions of the brain, such abilities.
 
Do I believe however, completely and without hestitation, in such unexplained phenomena?
 
I want to believe.

The problem with reading a book like Wuthering Heights or watching any kind of classic, passionate movie is that it completely alters your romantic perspective. Whereas you would have once been content with any sane warm body that gives you a present on Valentine's Day, you now require not only someone startlingly handsome, but also intensely amorous that would create scenes at dreary, misty airports, always have Paris, kiss you in the rain complete with a swelling soundtrack, write you a song so that whatever happens you'll be reminded of your love, save you in the icy waters of the Atlantic, carry you into a cave in the African desert, and insist upon standing in your garden to catch a glimpse of you at your window, wailing your name.

You now need a Civil War hero, a World War Two freedom fighter, a penniless poet, and someone who doesn't mind having Breakfast at Tiffany's.

The Wuthering Heights DVD is sitting guiltily by my TV set, itching to be put in, and I know that I desperately need to return it to Blockbuster so that I can pick up season 1 of The X Files (a desire spawned by a recent X files rerun I was captivated by) and forget completely about this English moor nonsense, and riding on horseback, and lingering among stormy skies with Heathcliffe...

No, I mustn't think about it. I musn't. I was satisfied with my summer thus far until two nights ago, and I need to forget about my bleak, barren romantic future. The problem is, as I suppose the same Cathy faced, there aren't many decent dateable guys around. Most are rapper/posers, others are boring, still others are too short, too tall, too... I don't know. I don't want to go out with anyone just to have something to do. I've had my chances, believe me, and the only person I've ever really had a connection with was Ryan...

I know I'm babbling nonsense, and I know (now) that there's no chance of that reality to come to pass, and I don't suppose I want it to anymore. Ryan was, and will be, for a time at least, the horrible "What if" lurking in my past. I think sometimes of what might have happened if either of us had been brave enough to explore what I thought we felt a year and a half ago, or even this past spring at the sushi retaurant. I wonder if he asked me today if I would say yes, or if there would be enough passion there to have something more than a silly, enjoyable time.

I suppose that that's the only thing I can do - wonder - and I know it's rediculous, and I'm glad that any kind of feeling I've had for him has dimmed. I've always felt that I am destined (such a silly word!) for some kind of grand, epic romance. How stupid it seems, put down in words. I guess all hopeless romantics do and I guess we can't help it. We're the kind of people that read Shakespeare and sigh, or read Keats and whisper it to ourselves simply because it sounds so lovely. The worst of us dream of knights and kings and honor, of chivalry and stolen, heated glances, dream of smiles under sun and rain and moon.

We're a silly bunch, also cynical at times because a part of us knows that it can't all be real. But we all think that one day it inevitably must happen to us, no matter what our better senses say. And so, in parting, I include a scene from Moulin Rouge -

(Quick synopsis) Satine is a courtesan whose dream is to be an actress in 1899 Paris at the Moulin Rouge. Christian is a naive english poet with Bohemian values, already smitten with Satine.

S : I can't fall in love with anyone.

C : Can't fall in love? But a life without love - that's terrible!

S (cutting in) : No, being on the street, that's terrible.

C : No.

S : What?

C : Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!

I just saw the most amazing version of Wuthering Heights, with Ralph Fiennes (you know, the broodingly intense count in The English Patient?).

Oh.


Oh, oh, oh.

Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliffe....

When Heathcliffe smashes the door in the dead of night and clutches Cathy's dead body from her coffin, crying?

I almost DIED.

I'm still drawing in shuddering, unsteady breaths.

Why can't I find a man like Heathcliffe?

You know, without the whole cruelty part.

My face is somewhat back to normal, thank God. I no longer look as if I was a victim of a battery acid accident, or that I am a female version of The Phantom of the Opera. I did, happily, rent 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', and so, being in a somewhat amiable mood, have a dire public service announcement:

Please do not vote for Mr. George W. Bush.

As I will only be under age at the time of the November election and, therefore, cannot vote (Damn them!) I must urge all of you out there with some kind of semblance of intelligence to help urge forward the Democratic ticket. Please. I have absolutely no idea how anyone with the brains of an amoeba can ignore what is happening in Iraq.

I think that I am dieing.

No, really, death is upon me in its crimson shroud.

My face has still not returned to normal, as of 11:54 Thursday night. I even ran out to Publix at about 10:30 to buy some Benadryl to help counter the allergic reaction spawned by the devilish concoction of sunblock and face cream. Really, is being sun conscious and wanting to moisturize a fitting crime for such an end? Alas, I am being punished for the little vanity that I had cultured at the purchase of my new Chanel lipstick (in Tornado). I suppose to counter such wrongdoing I must give to charity or become a nun to wipe the slate clean of my wrongs.

This is reminiscent of the incident that occured a few months ago - I was at school buying the greasy cardboard that insists upon masquerading as pizza when the lunch lady counted out the incorrect change at two dollars to my benefit. Figuring that this was simply the universe's way of evening out my 'F' on my pre-cal quiz that morning, I said nothing and instead returned to my friends. Monica immediately pointed out that I was callous, wrong, and shallow. I then spent the weekend giving money to every homeless person I saw in an attempt to redeem myself karmicly.

So, in order to deal with potentially remaining a slightly less pleasant version than Anthony Hopkins for the entirety of my remaining years, forgetting any kind of romantic future, college life, or book deals and instead having to move to Liberia where I could constantly wrap my face in linen, I did yoga and tried to concentrate on inner peace. Just as I was feeling energised, serene, and calm, neutral towards an angry, empty world that holds no place for hunchback equivalents, I passed a mirror and sadly looked at what had once been passable and, I daresay, at least marginally pleasing to look at.

Goodbye sweet youth and beauty so fleeting, I have no use for you now.

I am lying in my room in complete and total darkness, lit only by the flourescent glow of the computer screen. Every time I pass a mirror I shudder, desperately attempting to look away. My face and neck are covered in a rash; my eyelids are swollen and red drooping layers of flesh. It is too terrible to behold, and so I lie, helpless and hideous, alone.

I'm trying to study for my driver's test, which, to my horror, contains the following:

-turn about - Turn your car around in a 30' to 40' space (Does this mean a three-point turn? I am confused.)

-shift gears - Change gears smoothly and correctly (if your car has a manual shift transmission). (Hahah! No gears to shift, by God!)

-approach of crossing - Get in the proper lane and look in each direction. Change gears smoothly and correctly (if your car has a manual shift transmission). (Can do this.)

-observe right-of-way - Allow pedestrians to cross, pull over and stop for emergency vehicles and do not enter an intersection when you will interfere with other traffic. (I am reasonably sure that I will not hit pedestrians, as this skill was put to the test only two days ago. I was driving on South Beach and this stoned kid walked right into my car. I had to put on the brakes quickly; thankfully, neither kid nor car was injured. I'm not quite sure about the pulling over for emergency vehicles portion, though.)

-straight-in parking - Park your vehicle inside the parking space straight-in. When properly parked, the vehicle should be centered, inside the space with no part of the vehicle extending out in the traffic lane. This maneuver gives the examiner the opportunity to observe your ability to:

a) handle the vehicle in close quarters
b) judge distance
c) maintain control of the vehicle as you turn into a straight-in parking space

(I can do this. I notice there is no mention of parallel parking, thank God.)

-stop quickly - Drive at 20 miles per hour and make a quick, safe stop when the examiner instructs you. (How hard can it be to stop?)

backing - Back for a distance of 50 feet at a slow speed. Do not use the rear-view mirror when backing. Look to the rear instead. (CANNOT do this. Panic. Panic, panic, panic.)

The rest is traffic lights, passing, ect. It is terrible, yes, but with good luck I should have a car by the end of the summer and, therefore, my freedom.

It is dearly bought.

Tonight, after doing yoga for about the 10th time on slick tile with no mat and almost falling on my face everytime I tried the downward facing dog pose, I was determined to buy a sticky mat. Determined.

So, after covering the red, inflamed, swollen, misshapen lump of flesh that was previously my face with copious amounts of makeup, my father, sister, and I set out in the twilight. I was driving; never a good idea as I cannot back out without hitting a squirrel, pedestrian, ect. My father, who is constantly bracing for impact every time I approach a turn, feels it is his duty to randomly shout out driving tips and safety catious anecdotes - several times when it is nonapplicable to the situation.

For example - I will be driving along a straight stretch of roadway, carefully going at exactly the speed limit, and he will burst out, like somed kind of automated answering service - "Slow down! Remember to do hand over hand turns! Put your lights on!" and one more "Slow down!" just for good measure. Then, trying to instill a sense of driving fear, he will begin ominously, "Did I ever tell you about my friend back in high school, Little Timmy? He didn't check his mirrors before he left the driveway one day and..." at which point I will begin to hum 'Hey Ya!' and focus on the trees.

We arrived safely at the Sports Authority ("Slow down in the parking space! You're going too fast!") where I happily bought a sticky blue yoga mat, and my father flirted with the idea of buying rediculous oriental looking work out pants. I desperately was able to convince him otherwise by remarking that he looked like a new Samurai addition to the Village People.

Moving swiftly away in the darkness, we headed towards Blockbuster, where I intended to buy 'Breakfast at Tiffany's" once and for all and be done with it. Pressing myself against the outside wall, panic-stricken, my eyes darted back and forth. "What is wrong with you?" My father said, looking as if I should join the cast of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'.

"John's there." I hissed back. John was a twenty-something college student/Blockbuster employee who still lived with his mother, and had a desperate crush on me, fueled by the incident that occured this past Christmas. I was waiting outside Publix, trying to, admittedly, avoid John because he was a tad creepy, when he spotted me and strode quickly over. After chatting about the weather, movies, and one's health, there was a lull in the conversation.

"Are you avoiding me?" he asked heartbreakingly. Feeling like a terrible, terrible person, lower than scum, I gushed in a bizarre effort to overcompensate for being caught -

"Oh no. I was just, um..." I motioned in the Publix area. "Buying groceries." I attempted a tinkly laugh. "No, I absolutely adore you."

"Really?" he said breathlessly. It was at that moment I was rescued by my thankfully overprotective father, who shot John a dirty look and ushered me back to the car.

Back in the present...

I wanted Breakfast at Tiffany's more than I wanted to avoid John, so, taking a deep breath, I looked towards my two companions.

"If we don't come out of there, I just want you to know..." I began tearfully, only to be pushed inside. I slunk to the 'Drama' section unseen, quickly rooting through the B's. "Boom times...Breakfast Club..." I murmured under my breath, only to emerge with no DVD. Blockbuster, apparently, had no respect for the classics. As I was leaving, I was spotted by John who, busy with another customer, thankfully had no time to chat. I waved hello, and he grinned in a longing, wistful kind of way, and I left - unbreakfasted but also unassaulted.

Yesterday I bought a new lipstick color (Chanel Tornado, which reassuringly implies that, even in the face of impending natural disaster, I could still look like a Victoria's Secret model)and was eagerly looking forward to wearing it today. I crawled beneath my covers in the cool darkness, smiling with a quiet, knowing, assured grin.

I woke up this morning and felt that something was terribly wrong. My eyes felt swollen and would only half open. Stumbling in a blind panic to the mirror, I toppled back in horror. I looked as if I was a victim of a flesh-eating virus that was slowly consuming my face from within. Above my eyes hovered wads of red skin, my face, already speckled with sun-induced freckles, was now covered in an angry scarlet rash. My hair was standing up as if frightened from my reflection, and I stood shocked for a moment before filling a cup with ice water and soaking two spoons in it until chilled. The spoon, cold and dripping, I placed over my eyes. The swelling went down, thankfully; however, my face (if possible) was now more red. I sighed.

There are times that I wish I was the Man In the Iron Mask.

But, you know, a more attractive version.