I Never Said I Was Perfect
an excerpt

There is music in the way the world works, poignant notes and frazzled chords that spiral into infinity at both ends. There is positive and negative, bright and dark, attraction and rejection, love and hate. And there is gray in between the way our eyes merge images and gray in between our eyes that look shyly at each other. There is no perfection, no absolute right, as there is no absolute wrong. They are all almost opposites, all almost apart, but almost don’t cut it, so they are together, too. They caress each other with fingers of consciousness; bathe each other in the music of souls that yearn to break free while striving to merge into one. Streams of thought allow conception, allow birth, and allow reverence of the cooing child in the K-mart crib. There is love; love more than anything. Whatever the world may disintegrate to, whatever lives are shattered, whatever hearts are broken irreparably, there is always love that can heal, love that can glue the pieces together, love more than anything. But there is no perfection. You can hear the world whisper the mystery of the universe in your fragile, fleeting ear. It says, “I never said I was perfect.”

(Excerpt from Chapter 3)

I don’t have anything to do today, so I guess I get to go in my parents’ room and listen to the cable music channels while avoiding the Christmas one. I hate Christmas music, it’s all so stupid. The holidays aren’t for almost two months, but the stores were Christmas-y even before Halloween.
My father has appeared at the door, halfway through Dazed and Confused. It suits him well, especially when he’s not awake all the way. I’m looking forward to the day of tip-toeing (he doesn’t go in until midnight on Sunday), but at least I get the couch now.
I’m listening to Nickelback when my cell rings. It’s odd, because no one ever calls me: I seriously have no life. It’s a 631 number, and I have no idea where that comes from. So this is how it goes:

Me: Hello?
Some Guy: Hi, can I talk to Bob?
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
Some Guy: Is this 555-8585?
Me: Yeah, but it’s a new number.
Some Guy: Okay, goodbye.

Then he hangs up. I wonder who Bob (what a frightfully generic name) is and why he changed his number. Could he have moved and not told this apparent friend? Why wasn’t he surprised that a girl answered? (I know this number is cell only around here.) And, the best one I can think of, (drum roll please) is Bob Whoever dead? I laugh at myself for that one, always ready to jump to out of proportion conclusions. My life is not some mystery thriller, it’s real. Nothing interesting ever happens to me in real life. Maybe that’s why I’m so tipsy over one call from an old number. Sigh.
That reminds me about the fact that I have a cell, though, so I go back to work on my death notes. It sounds really morbid, but I find instructing people on what to do if I croak is actually kind of fun. Here’s what I have so far:

1. If I die tell Fin Abrams I love him.
2. If I die don’t give Guy anything.
3. If I die my money is in the hollow book.
4. If I die cremate me.
5. If I die remember that I am a pagan! No church services!
6. If I die make everyone wear white to my funeral.
7. If I die I want my headstone to say: I DIED. THAT’S LIFE.
8. If I die know that I was Violet Llewellyn.

So what do you think? I wonder what the rest of the world would put on a list like that? *Sigh* I wonder too much. It really isn’t a good habit unless you’re a philosopher, and that doesn’t pay so well these days. (If at all, I’m not sure.)