"For fiction dies faster and truth just survives"

Stickshifts and safetybelts,
Bucket seats have all got to go.
When we're driving in the car,
It makes my baby seem so far.
I need you here with me,
Not way over in a bucket seat.
I need you to be here with me,
Not way over in a bucket seat.

Setting the mood - my nails have a fresh layer of clean, clear gloss upon them, the cd I purchased at Amoeba of my friend's band is to my left, atop my next library read, "The Abstinence Teacher." Perrier with lemon is bouncing in my belly, like the butterflies that have taken displaced residence there are playing volley ball with the carbonation. I'm feeling quite bubbly.

Generally, writing is my friendly outlet for the confusion that life provokes in me. Around this time of night, I usually sit at my fossilized Compaq Presario 700Z and sing a little song about the day - where I been and what I done - which beyond bringing closure, helps digest the rare emotions of a young midwestern transplant. Today I'm sitting here in deeply rooted thought, my fingers are turning to stone the longer they rest on the keyboard, and my mind is jumping with feelings that seem to be untamed, unrecognizable, and evermore indescribable. This is an unfortunate state for a writer. If happiness takes permanent hold, my dreams will certainly come crashing down and all the little chickens across the land will be screaming, "THE SKY IS FUCKING FALLING! ARMAGEDDON! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!" And I can't decide if this is good or bad.

I've been crossing my fingers with the desire to be a full fledged author since I was in high school. Not because I enjoyed my English classes... no no... I stopped at English 101 section 13 once I was in college; but the thought of absorbing some big psycho mumbo jumbo and spitting back out with a pretty cover and a dedication page has been unrealistically appealing for days upon years on end. So, what if I woke up one day (let's call it D-Day) and that far fetched dream meandered it's way into reality? Magically and without warning I'm published outside of a backpacking organization's annual report and a push-button blog. Let's say I've got the most amazing, glossy hard covered book of the bunch; it's got Oprah's book club and Nobel Peace Prize stamped all over it. People are waiting in lines for days to get an autographed copy from yours truly. What would you say to that? Even if I paid you, would you believe me? Does anyone deserve such remarkable fortune?

I don't know exactly how long I've had to sleep for this dream to come true. It feels like I've been unconscious forever and ever, and all of a sudden I am awake facing a world of candy and technicolor. This reality outdoes all the dreaming I've done and it's forcing me to squint, scratch my head, and raise my shoulders in wonderment. I want to tape my eyelashes to my eyebrows so I can't blink - not even dare close my eyes long enough for my incredible life to fade away into a foggy memory. It's hard enough to believe as it is, I don't want to believe it as a lost moment in San Francisco's history. I want to be as present and close to this truth as one could possibly get. No more bucket seats. No safe bubble space. No holding back.

Watch me hold my breath and dive into life.