  Why oh why has my Humanity on Trial role been changed to Stalin? Do I look like an evil post-Lenin mass murderer? I don't speech Russian, I'm not a man, and most importantly; I haven't got a handlebar mustache, goddammit ! ---------------------------------- Things are odd in my neck of the woods. I would like to postscript my last post with this; I am one melodramatic nerd. I've just been out of the loop too long. Hookups, even ones which involve hushed conversations about Bright Eyes, are still pretty tame. But if you read that post, you'll see just how much I ooze of self-satisfied passion. Someday, maybe in the far off land of college, I will be able to handle such emotion with grace. And in such future relations, I will not publish immediate thoughts the day after. I'm a deranged woman. One would think such a woman would be able to occupy her thoughts for one lousy dance recital. Oh no, not me.
Poor Anna D., there was absolutely no way for even a sane person to watch two and a half hours of amateur ballet, tap, and jazz. Of course, Anna's part was lovely. It was the ninety other dancers (ages 3-18) that gave me claustrophobia. I had to escape that auditorium, if only to sit on the running track with Robin for an hour. In doing so, I remembered one of the most anger memories I have. I was five or six and backstage at my own Olympian-length ballet recital. (I was a snowflake or a lobster that year, I can't remember which) but Daniel B. was in my class. I had very black-and-white gender lines drawn in my head and a boy was impossibly unwelcome in tights. I think I generated this concept to my fellow kindergarteners, and thus a plan was hatched. We were going to kill him No, really, we were. Or at least make it so he could never dance again. I was to hide under the refreshment table after the performance with a knife (obviously, I didn't have one, but that was not the point).
When Daniel B. went to reach for a cookie, I would stab him in the leg. And yes, leg-stabbing results in death in this scenario. But Daniel's mother found out somehow and yelled at me. I cried and wailed apologies so loudly that my dance teacher then yelled at me to shut my mouth. This of course, did nothing but propel by sobbing even louder. The tears eventually dried up.
We still have pictures from that day, and there is smudged stage makeup all over my little face. What a lasting testament to my ill-fated and unsuccessful career as a hitwoman. ---------------------------------- Favorite quote from the bus yesterday: Freshman Boy #1: Girls don't poop. Freshman Boy #2: Yah, they just get cramps. ---------------------------------- I found a new place to enjoy alternate states of mind! Oh, the joy of Corbin Arts Center. The old Victorian Estate where I once took crochet classes and did dramatic mirror exercises is now a wonderful place to toke myself silly.
The past week became an explosion of spring weather, including a baby tornado a few miles east of Spokane. When the lightning did not cease for over an hour, we sat on a hill under a tree and watched the most mesmorizing lighting jab across the sky. It was amazing. Affectionately... Anna 
