Something Old

Hi, everyone.

Is that a good way to start? I guess so; a good a way as any. So, hi.

Hello. Bonjour. Hola. And, its good to “see” you again.

Even though I can’t see you. Like, at all. It’s not like I, you know, stalk you from the internet. What? That would be crazy!!! I can’t see you through the computer screen, or anything. Heh…

I really can’t see you through your computers. Maybe Nudge can, but I can’t. Though that would be a pretty cool power to develop…

Well, now I sound like a creepy stalker, don’t I? Yes, I kinda do. So, I’m sorry for sounding like a creepy stalker. I’m not… Yet…

Had to add that. It was actually quite fun.

I’m sorry for that (it was totally worth it, though). And I’m also sorry for not posting for a while. I feel like I say this a lot, but I always really mean it. I always have a reason, and sometimes it’s a good one. Not always, as you’ve probably learned over the year/year and a half I’ve posted.

I think it’s pretty good this time. Hopefully, at least.

I’ve had a rough couple weeks and a rough couple of months, as you’ve probably guessed. Things have been… hard. Harder than usual. The whole Max “situation” has had me down. And, reasonably, too. It’s hard enough being on the run. It’s hard enough not having an actual childhood. It’s harder, though, to lose the one thing that’s given you at least a half-childhood and has kept you reasonably sane over the years.

Reasonably. I said reasonably. Not “fully.” Gosh, people.

It was hard losing Max. She was all of those things to me, and more. She was my mom, my best friend, my sister, my lover, my everything.

And then she was… gone.

Suddenly, out of the blue, with no warning, she had disappeared. And it hurt, it stung, it burned. Every bit of her was gone, as if she’d never existed in the first place. Only, I knew she had. Because I remembered her. I remembered everything crazy, and fun, and great about her, even the weird parts. I remembered things I hadn’t before, but that only made the emptiness inside of me emptier. I thought she’d be there forever, just as I thought so many other things had, just to watch them dissipate within my palms. I didn’t appreciate what I’d had until it was gone.

And I regret it.

I spent weeks thinking she was over, it was over, I was over. I spent weeks regretting every breath I had taken, because, I thought, I had done it all wrong. I regretted not telling her she was beautiful every morning, not realizing when she cut her hair, not keeping all of her in my arms and never letting go.

I spent weeks regretting not telling her I loved her, not telling her I loved her every single second of every single day. I regretted not memorizing the lines in her palm, not memorizing her heartbeat, not memorizing her.

Having “Max” around only made moving on harder. I could see her face, I could hear her voice, but I couldn’t see or hear her. It’s like having a family member die, and only being able to see their face in pictures. That’s honestly what it felt like. Every time I saw Max, I hurt a little more. I had something, something so close, something so beautiful, right in front my face, almost in my grasp, only to have it flutter away.

It was like that every day.

At least this story has a happy ending. So far, at least. Good news: Max is back; well, as back as she’ll ever be.

That’s kinda the reason I didn’t post. I wanted to wait until the end–whatever the end may have been–and just let life play out until then. I wanted to know the result before I shared the beginning. And… There was a bit of another reason. A, sadder, more emotional one.

It hurt to much to remember. I had to remember, to some extent, but to the littlest I could manage. It was so painful to look back at my memories, to look back at my pain and sorrow and happiness. It made it worse. Like I said before, it made the empty a little emptier.

And, so there. Now you have a little bit of the beginning, a little of the middle, and a little of the end. Was the excuse okay this time?

I guess I’ll fill in the details now.

Max came back from Chicago another person. At first, she was shy, she was timid, she was often silent. She had no snappy comebacks, only silence or a mumble.

I wanted to tell her–to shout to her, to the heavens–how she, how we, used to be. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. She was fearful of lots of things, and I didn’t want to scare her into loving me. It had to be real if it were to be; real like it had been before.

I watched her start to like things she hadn’t before. I watched her fall in love with brownies, instead of chocolate chip cookies. I watched her fall in love with the name Maxine. I watched her fall in love with something, with someone, that made my heart break a thousand times over.

I watched her fall in love with Iggy.

That was the thing that wounded the most. That was the thing that left the scars in my heart.

Everything about her was gone. She was like a whole other person, and, for more than two months, it left me reeling. It left me feeling sick and empty and everything at once. My strong-willed demeanor crumbled and I was left raw. I was left open to weathering and to breaking down and to tears. I missed her snappy comments with all of my heart. I missed Max. I missed my mom, my best friend, my sister, my lover, my everything.

She became just like any other teenage girl. Her shyness melted away into makeup and dresses and just everything non-Max. I felt so extremely distant from her. She was so close, yet seemed worlds away. She wasn’t herself anymore. Her strength, her will, her bravery; all dissipated. I was left with this girl who I craved so badly, yet, at the same time, didn’t.

To her, I was insignificant. Her old best friend, her old more-than-friend–suddenly, nothing. I welded into the background of her, while the foreground became busy with boys, looks, gossip. Max hardly talked to me, other than the occasional, “Pass the salt,” or comment about my unruly hair and how she wished she could “chop it off.” Or perhaps how the whole emo/goth look was “sooooo last season.”

She giggled with Nudge and some girls down the street, and constantly obsessed over Iggy. Psssh, it didn’t hurt. Just shattered my heart into a million pieces and scattered them to the four corners of the globe. No biggie.

I watched the girl I loved fall in love with another. I watched as she fell for his supposed “looks, charm, humor.” I watched as she flirted with said boy.

Iggy didn’t flirt back, though. The whole “Max-is-in-love-with-you” thing made him insanely uncomfortable. He was only made more uncomfortable when she tried to kiss him, was rejected, and cried in her room for practically a week.

I think he knew how much it hurt for me. I think he could see the damage in my eyes, and see more than just empty silence in the absence of my words. I think he saw what I longed to say, longed to tell her. Everything I couldn’t.

Dr. M saw, too. She tried to refamiliarize Max with her real world, her real self. The wings were a huge shocker for this stranger in the body of the only girl I had ever truly loved. Dr. M told Max her past, her story, her tragic tale. Max didn’t believe a word of it.

And, when Dr. M told Max about my past relationship with her (much to my dismay), Max simply replied, “Eeeew. Him? Really?” I think there was more, but I couldn’t hear it. It couldn’t hear it because my skin was burning, my skin was on fire; on fire with embarrassment and resentment and misery, such misery. I couldn’t see her through my eyes full of white hot tears–she was just a yellow and brown and makeup covered blob in the blurry. And then I was upstairs, then I was on my bed with my face buried in my pillow and I couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t stop the feeling that I was worthless, I was nothing. I was exposed to this whole other side of myself–one that hurt and ached and burned–this side who could cry, this side who could weep.

That was the part that hurt the most. It hurt in my blood, my fiery cheeks, my stinging eyes. It hurt everywhere, it hurt in places I didn’t even know could hurt.

It went on–it dragged on–like this. For over two months, I was left like this. And Max was left like… that.

And then yesterday, all of that–what I’d began to except as my reality and my fate–changed.

It was cold last night. I felt cold and hollow and empty. Iggy had said something to Max at dinner, and she had burst into tears and ran out of the house. The meal was finished in silence.

I told Dr. M that I was going for a walk, but really, I had wanted to find Max. I don’t know why, but something urged me that this was necessary, this was needed in the grand scheme of things. Some part of me deep inside wanted to go out there and comfort its best friend. I guess the rest of me went along with it.

I found her on the roof, shivering in the moonlight, face in palms. Her wings were spread and looked almost iridescent in the unearthly glow.

I sat next to her. “Cold?” I asked.

She inched away and sneaked a glance at me through the gaps in her fingertips. “Go away,” she mumbled. I could hear the tears in her voice. “Leave me alone.”

“Are you cold?” I stared at her, waiting for an answer.

She nodded a little bit, but didn’t lift her tear-streaked cheeks from her hands. I slid the jacket over her shoulders. She looked happy and confused and sad and angry all at the same time.

“You know, this jacket isn’t half bad. It’s genuine leather, right? You know, Seventeen says leather is really in. I might have to borrow this for a party.”

I guess that was the closest to, “Thanks,” I was gonna get. But I grinned anyways. “Maybe it’s not so last season.” There was an awkward pause. I spoke again. “So what’s got you down?”

Somehow, these words seemed right. Max glanced up from her hand-fortress and actually smiled. She looked unsure, though, and the smile turned to a grimace. “Iggy. I really like him-“

I had to ask. “Do you love him?” She nodded. I felt the burning again, and could barely stop the tears from coming. I felt so… empty.

And then I surprised myself. I said something without hesitation, something my Max would’ve understood, but not this… imposter. “Do you love him this much?” I held out my arms to demonstrate just how much I was inquiring about.

Only silence resonated back. I thought she was mad, maybe even furious. I had said it carelessly, a joke only Max would’ve understood the reference to. But then I looked.

Only, she wasn’t mad. She seemed torn between two expressions: confusion and surprise. Her eyes were bluer than I’d seen them for ages–deep and powerful and beautiful. Something had changed. I didn’t know what yet, though.

“Fang?” She looked down at herself, her clothes; appalled. “Why the heck (not her word choice, but let’s keep it PG) do I look like a princess?!?”

I was shocked, and every other emotion at once. I could barely choke out, “I think it’s more of a Malibu Beach Barbie kinda look.”

She punched me on the arm.

My mind was in overdrive, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Max…?

“No, but seriously, why do I look like some little kid got a hold of some crayons? Did you give Nudge another paint set???”

My heart was pounding, my heart was pounding. Was this real?

“Yeah. I also gave Gazzy gunpowder, and Iggy some illegal fireworks I smuggled in from Canada. Oh yeah, and I threw Total off a bridge and got some alligators to protect the house.” Like I’d give Nudge a paint set after what happened last time…

Max laughed sarcastically and punched me on the arm again, harder. “Hardee-har-har. Very funny, Sergeant Sarcasm. I’ll be sure to remember that next time you’re in a life-threatening situation.”

I laughed, more out of shock than out of actual humor. She didn’t remember? What was going on? “You actually don’t remember? Why you look like…” I could hear the panic in my voice, hear everything at once. This was Max, Max, Max. I could feel my heart pounding against my throat, waiting for this all to disappear and for Max to return to the stranger I’d gotten used to her as.

“Like I just walked out of Hollister?” She curled her lip and made a face. “Welcome to Hollister. Would you like a gas mask and a flashlight?”

I chuckled, but only for a moment. Why was… this happening? “Max, where were you?” The questions began to pour out, questions about everything, everything I’d wondered about–had nightmares about–for so long of my life. And, suddenly, I couldn’t stop myself. I found myself crying, shaking, breaking down; a side of me I’d never let Max see before.

She held me tightly, and it felt… right. I was still crying, my tears silver in the moonlight, like Max’s tears.

And, then, once again, I surprised myself. I said something I wouldn’t have before, before this darkness had overcome my life. I choked out, smiling through tears, “Do you love me?”

The question had slipped past my lips before I could stop it. At first I was upset, but then, I wasn’t upset anymore. After so long of knowing it was no, knowing it was no, even though I had wanted it to be otherwise, I didn’t know if it really was no anymore. And I was curious.

Max stared at me for a moment, in some kind of shock. “Do I… what?” I instantly regretted the words. It would be no. What if she still loved Iggy?

“Love me,” I whispered. The tears started coming harder, faster, and I felt every bit of me being ripped apart. This couldn’t be real, no, no, no…

She paused. And then, she was crying too, sobbing; like every piece of her was falling apart. “Oh, Fang, I remember…” She laced her fingers through mine, sobbing through her words. “I remember everything. All of it. I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be.” I squeezed her hand, and the little silver droplets came faster, faster, faster.

“Fang, I…” Max trailed off, and my heart skipped a beat. In her eyes, I could see something pure, something real, something right–something I wanted. I wanted her. I wanted Max. “I love you.”

That was all that mattered, all that mattered now, all that mattered ever. She loved me. And I loved her.

I felt her lips press against mine, and suddenly I was floating in warmth, floating in passion. It was right, more right than anything before.

When the kiss ended, her eyes were more blue than ever.

I brought her down from the roof, and into the house, allthewhile keeping my eyes on hers; her eyes on mine. The eyes I missed; blue as the ocean, the sky, the world. I could tell she was back, I knew I could, because I could see life in those eyes.

So now I have Max. Something old.

I also have tears. Something new.

But it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, because now I have Max. And love, once again. And Max is both new and old, a combination of the two.

I like having two things at once.

Fly on.

-Fang

What’s Left of Us

I feel like someone’s turned out the lights; I’m so trapped in the darkness. Like all of the air has been forced out of my lungs; I can’t breathe. My world’s just a mass of nothingness, of darkness, of emptiness.

Everything I once had is gone, and everything I knew as reality has turned around on me–a foul, bitter trick.

Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… After, you know, everything I’ve been through, I thought I’d seen the worst. The dirtiest. The most horrifying. I guess I was wrong.

I’ve built up so many walls, defenses. I’m quiet, surprisingly enough. It’s so hard for me to open up. I’m not the kind of guy that wears his heart on his sleeve. And, now they’re all gone, crumbled into rubble with just a glance. Hard to imagine something so strong could also be so fragile. I feel exposed now. Vulnerable, even.

I think I’m supposed to be. I think that’s what they wanted. Something I couldn’t handle. Something to test my will, my pride, my strength. I thought I could handle anything. I guess I was wrong about that, too.

I guess I was wrong about a lot of things.

Like things lasting forever. Like things going away. But, most of all, I think I was wrong about my supposed strength and bravery.

I am not strong. All I am is skin and bone. I am not brave. I’ve let my emotions control me.

I feel like a weakling. I feel like a coward. I feel like I am both.

If I were brave, if I were strong, I wouldn’t have lost. Lost everything. If I were brave, if I were strong, I could’ve done something.

If I am brave, or strong, why do I feel so helpless?

So, Chicago… Arizona. I’m back. At least part of me is. I feel like I lost part of me there. Why, you might ask? I wish I didn’t have to talk about it, but I have to tell you all at one point or another. I’ve started telling it on the last post. I might as well finish.

My first night in Chicago, some people came after me with guns.

I was sleeping in an alleyway, on some old chair between brick office buildings, somewhere near Edgewater. Of course, I had no idea where I was at the time. After wondering the city aimlessly for hours, I’d ended up getting kind of lost. I don’t remember getting there, or falling asleep, but I do remember waking up, to some guy’s voice screaming at me to wake up. I opened my eyes, still clearing sleep out of my mind, only to get punched in the face by the same guy that had screamed at me. Hard. I was angry. I was pure anger.

There were a bunch of guys–maybe around 18–glaring down at me. About three had guns. I can’t remember exactly what they were saying, but they were mad about something that had to do with me “intruding” on their territory. They told me to get up. I refused. One pressed the barrel of a gun to my forehead. I was upset, but also frightened, as I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I didn’t want to hurt them. Desperately trying to stay calm, I let out a little chuckle. “Kill me?” I laughed. “You want to shoot me?” I could tell that they were confused. Why wasn’t I scared? “You can’t kill me. I am… Death.” On the last word, I spread my wings out, tearing the fabric on my shirt. I actually hit one of them in the face with my right one.

They freaked out; started screaming. I started laughing, because, honestly, it was pretty darn funny. Just imagine it. Almost 15 guys–with guns, I might add–running from a pair of wings. Psssh, chickens.

The rest of the night and following day passed without event. I wandered through the city, and, when night fell, I was once again somewhere strange. Foreign to me, just as the city was.

A nicer neighborhood this time. Darkness began to fall, and a woman noticed my presence outside of her house. I thought she would come out yelling and screaming, but she didn’t. I’m sure I looked like a mess, some kind of street urchin. She was kind, with a pretty, innocent face. Striking, blonde hair and these piercing blue eyes. She asked me if I was alright. I said yes. She asked me if I needed help, or was lost. I said I just needed a place to stay for the night. I can remember exactly what she said then: “Would you like to stay in my home? It wouldn’t be a bother.” I thanked her and came inside. I was just so tired.

She had a daughter. They both died.

My dreams were haunted by screams that night. I dreamed that the house was swallowed by blood. When I woke up, the air smelled rotten and foul. I followed the smell into the room of the mother and the daughter. It was covered in blood, and on the wall, written and smeared in blood, was an address.

I am the reason they died. The woman said I wasn’t a bother. She lied.

Every time I think of the family, my heart crumbles in two. I feel as though I’ve just been stabbed with a knife, with so much agony in my chest. It was my fault. My fault. Couldn’t I have left them alone? My fault, my fault. I was the reason a little girl and her mother died. I never even knew their names.

I left. Left without a word, or a tear, because the feeling inside of me was so sharp and filled with guilt that I couldn’t even produce tears. It was more pain than the kind of pain you cry over.

The address was one of an abandoned factory. Inside, it was cold and dark and dank, just the way I felt. I was attacked by Erasers. I didn’t fight back. I was so, so tired of blood. I couldn’t bare to hurt anything. I couldn’t bare to see any blood. The only blood I saw was my own.

I was ripped to shreds, but I didn’t even feel the pain because I was so empty. So broken. So numb.

Then, everything stopped. The claws, the teeth, the Erasers. They froze in mid-attack, eyes glazed over. Not dead. Just frozen, somehow.

Max appeared at the end of the hallway, hands folded into her pockets. My heart began pounding in my throat, somehow detached from its mooring within my chest. The cuts on my arms, my legs, my everywhere started to burn, like there was fire coursing through my veins. I could hurt again because I could feel again. I wasn’t so empty anymore. My limbs were on fire, but I didn’t care, because Max was there in front of me.

Suddenly, she collapsed. I remember screaming and running to her side, screaming like I was dying because I thought Max was dying, and Max dying is worse, so much worse than dying myself. She wouldn’t open her eyes for 2 hours. I cried until I ran out of tears, screamed until I ran out of breath.

When she awoke, something was different. Her blue eyes, blue like the sea, as blue as those of the woman who died, were empty. Void of thought or emotion or love. When she looked at me, she saw nothing. She said, “Hello. Who are you? Where am I?” I can tell she didn’t know because of those dead, empty, unfeeling eyes. I felt like I was dying, and every part of me broke at once. The emptiness returned, stronger than before, and stones dropped into the pit of my stomach.

I replied, trying to keep my voice steady for the sake of Max, who wasn’t really Max anymore, “Hi, I’m Fang. Do you remember me, Max?” She shook her head. My heart shattered. “I’m your…” I wanted to say lover. Boyfriend. Instead, “I’m your friend, Max. You’re in a bad place. I’m here to take you home, to a good place. Does that sound alright to you?” She nodded. I helped her to her feet, and out of the building.

I flew her on my back all the way back to Arizona. On the way out of Chicago, I passed over the woman’s house. The sky was red, like blood.

Max and I got home yesterday. At least, I did. Max isn’t Max anymore. Max was left in Chicago.

My scars have mainly healed, but nothing inside of me has. Can I fix a broken heart? A broken soul? I don’t think that tape works for that kind of stuff.

Max reminds me so much of what used to be. She knows my name, and speaks to me, but it’s not the same. She speaks without passion, and I can sometimes see fear in her eyes, something that wasn’t there before.

The love is gone, now nothingness. I can’t tell her how we used to be, because, how can that ever be again? Speaking about it would make it all the more real.

I feel dead. So hollow. Maybe I’m more empty than Death.

I can give myself time to heal, but there’s only so much time can bring back. There’s so little left of me.

So little left of us.

Fly on.

-Fang

Something New

I know guys aren’t supposed to share their feelings. It’s unnatural; not right. It’s some kind of unspoken rule or something. Maybe I’m not a dude. Maybe I’m just… different. Whatever the reason, I’m going to go out on a limb and share my feelings with you guys.

Weird, huh? Never thought I’d be doing this, to anyone, let alone the general public. I’m not really a share-feelings kind of guy. I’m secluded, I’m quiet, I’m… whatever you want to call me. I don’t do things like this. I just… don’t.

I only really talk to people I know. I don’t know any of you personally, but I feel like I know you as the blog. Or the community of the blog. The viewers. Whatever. Nevertheless, I’ve had this blog for over a year (crazy, huh?). I’ve had some of you for over a year. I feel like I know you guys. Not like I-know-your-address kind of knowing. More like, the you-seem-like-a-nice-person kind of knowing. I know your little icon patterns, the way you comment, whether or not you’re funny, etc. I think I’m opening up a new chapter by doing this. Or maybe just closing the old. I’m changing something and I… like it.

As you might have guessed, something’s happened. Something major, crazy, you name it. It’s not like me to just leave the blog for two months. I really try NOT to do that. But sometimes I can’t help it. Unfortunately, the internet needs wi-fi and a computer. I can’t just connect to it with my mind (no matter how cool that sounds). I’m posting this from an Apple Store in Chicago.

Wi-fi’s been scarce, just the same as food, sleep, and sanity. I’m tired. I’m confused. Not only that, but I can’t fight off this feeling of longing. Of wanting, of needing. “Of what?” you may ask. Well, it’s… complicated. I feel like I’m in the middle now–of this chapter of my life. And in order for any of this to make sense, I need to start at the beginning.

It started on the 27th of January. We–the Flock–were still in Massachusetts. I’d just completely and totally failed while attempting to watch a child (and my hair still had some glue in it). Dr. M took us to church. Yes, church. I don’t think we really have a religion, but we still went. Dr. M’s grandma had just died the day before (that Saturday), and she wanted us to come pray for her with her. I felt like I owed her something, so none of us really argued (I also think I owed her because of the toilet Reilly had stuffed with toilet paper–you know, that one–had overflowed and flooded the entire first floor of her sister’s house. Responsible me, right? Heh, no.).

So, service had just started, when suddenly there was a loud bang from above. A whole bunch of glass came raining down, and then there was screaming. Utter, complete panic. Everyone’s screaming and running around, and there are shards of glass everywhere, and my skin is burning like fire. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins along with this terrible, aching fear, and I’m so confused, and find that my voice is one of the many in the cacophony of screams. Everything gets really blurry, and I’m getting trampled, then suddenly the crowd parts and the blurry goes away. From the shattered window emerges a figure–two, actually. Erasers. Two of them. With these monstrous grins plastered across their faces and dirty wings. The screams get louder, and once again there is chaos. Nobody seems to know where anything is, and even the two Erasers are lost in the crowd. Fighting their way towards the group of us bird-kids.

The next few minutes were a blur. I don’t remember much, other than the two Erasers swooping towards us. Towards Max. They scooped her up, and were… gone. There was only one though in my mind: They took Max. I was angry. I felt like collapsing. I was sad. I was happy, too, happy that they hadn’t killed anyone, even though that might not make sense in the circumstances. My emotions were bubbling and boiling. Nothing was clear.

I found myself in a barren field, not quite sure how I had gotten there. The sun was setting, and I was tired. So very tired. I collapsed on the spot, bloodied and bruised.

When I woke up, it was light again. I felt as if I hadn’t eaten in days. My whole system seemed to have crashed into nothingness. I flew. I flew faster than I’ve ever flown before. I didn’t even know where I was going, where I was, and I hadn’t seemed to realize that I’d left the entire Flock behind. Somehow, I ended up back at the church. Everything was silent and still, like the whole world was frozen in time. The glass was still shattered, yet the panic had seemed to leak from the building.

There was someone among the shattered glass. I remember my moment of fear; was it Max? As I drew closer, I could better make out the bloodied figure. An Eraser, soaked in blood. It was terrible. Horrifying. Written in the blood, across the creature’s arm was one word: Chicago. I didn’t know who’d killed the thing, who’d wrote the message, but I knew one thing. It was for me. I could feel it inside my core, in the same place that all the sorrow was.

Finally I went home. I couldn’t force myself to blog, to eat, to sleep. It went on for a month. Some piece of me seemed to have crumbled. Maybe my heart. Maybe my sanity. Anyways, Dr. M was very worried. I didn’t care.

I couldn’t get Max out of my head for a month. There was no sign of her, no nothing. Dr. M had wanted me to let my cuts and bruises and broken arm heal, but eventually the anguish proved too much. So I left. And here I am.

I feel so… depressed. So out of it. Crazed, crumbling, shattered. Screwy in the head. I see Max in all my dreams. Next to me. Always.

The longing has only grown. For her, I guess. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like some part of me died the day Max disappeared. And now I’m slowly rotting. My heart, my core, my soul; every part of me is infected with this overwhelming sadness.

I need Max. I can’t even find the words to describe how broken I am.

Maybe I’m crazy to try to find her. To fly all of the way to Chicago, without even knowing whether she is or isn’t six feet under.

Something inside of me made me come.

Something called… love. Because after all of this craziness in the last two months–in the last few years–I’ve come to the realization that I… I love her.

Fly on.

-Fang

Babysitters and Blackouts

I’m tired. Like really, extremely tired. I have these huge circles under my eyes and I keep yawning… It’s just so loud. So darn loud. I can’t concentrate with this kind of noise. Crying, crying, crying; why are little kids so loud? I just don’t understand it. It’s 10 at night as I’m writing this (though I’ll probably end up posting it late tomorrow). Why am I the only one bothered by this? Can’t the neighbors hear it? It’s just the proper time for my super-sharp hearing to kick in… Do my ears hate me or something?

Ugh, I can’t even make out what the kid’s saying. Where are his parents when I need them? I absolutely hate babysitting. Why does it have to be so difficult? I didn’t know I’d have to work.

hwRBGIHBRGQEIHBGIQERGBIBnjrfnjiagjqernjbgruib,.,[pl[

Sorry, that was me. I fell asleep on the keyboard. Stupid kid. I’m getting paid for this. I can’t fall asleep now…

Oh, gosh. I just keep dozing off. I need to write. Need to stay awake. Need… coffee. Yummy, caffeinated, hyperactive coffee-

Snap out of it, Fang. Just concentrate. On the computer. Wait, no, on the kid. Computer. Kid. Computer-

Just nevermind. I’ll multitask. Maybe. Hopefully. Possibly. I hate ADD.

Okay, finally focused. Kinda. Okay, so I bet you all are wondering what I’m doing attempting to be a babysitter. Well, I’m failing. Pathetically. Horribly. I’m terrible with kids. Why are they so loud? So obnoxious? So hungry? So… gross?

Sorry. That’s a bit of a stereotype (well, a lot of one). Not all kids are stupid. Just Reilly. And a few others… *cough*Gazzy and Iggy*cough*

I’ll get back to this story in a second. For any of this to make even the tiniest bit of sense, I need to explain the first part. The part that includes hair care products, heart attacks, and mismatched socks. My life is insane…

So, Dr. M’s grandma just had a heart attack. She lives in Massachusetts, where I and the rest of the Flock will be for a few weeks. Dr. M’s brother lives around there, too (in the same city); so, we’re staying at his house. Long story short, she isn’t in the best condition right now. I know it may sound a bit depressing, but Dr. M needed to get together with her brother and mother to discuss her grandmother’s will. It’s sad. I don’t know her very well at all (in fact, I’ve actually never met her before), but Dr. M does, and it’s taken its toll on her. She’s been kinda depressed.

Okay, I’m done with the saddening subjects. Let’s all think of puppies and rainbows and unicorns and pop-tarts. That should help lighten the mood.

Anyways, the whole heart attack thing is on pretty short notice. The lady’s not young (in fact, she’s 98), but those kind of things are really unpredictable. So, basically, we got a call Thursday morning telling us to hurry down to Massachusetts (of course, a cell phone call, as the landline was out along with the power).

Wednesday night, our whole town had this huge blackout. Huge as in massive. It’s pretty big for a town in Arizona, and almost every single light in the whole place was out. Yeah, some idiot drove his car into a pole with a bunch of power-line-thingies on the top. I honestly don’t know what it’s called, but I think you know what I’m talking about.

It was 5 in the morning when we got the call. And, to my discovery, the power was still out. Imagine that. 5 in the morning. Cloudy outside. Raining. In the middle of Winter. So, pitch black. Literally. I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. Unfortunately, I also discovered the house’s apparent lack of flashlights (which just made me Mr. Popular). And to make matters worse, the one we did have was dead. And we were out of batteries. I really don’t understand it. Stuff like this always happens. And, generally, to only me. Aren’t I Mr. Lucky, too?

So, basically, I ended up with a bunch of insane mishaps occurring. First of all, I ended up wearing the usual clown attire. Being really dark, it’s honestly quite hard to get dressed like a normal human (or, in my case, birdkid). A plaid shirt, paired with a pair of Max’s pink flowery skinny jeans (Please, don’t ask why they were in my drawer. I have no idea.), mismatching shoes, and these disgusting Christmas socks. I also tried to take a shower before leaving. That didn’t turn out too well.

Before I get to that, let me just say that there are currently two people that I really, really hate in this house. Iggy and Gazzy. They took this “opportunity” to prank me. They took my soap and replaced it with Elmer’s glue with pink hair dye in it. I totally, totally hate them. So, I ended up with a crazy outfit and pink, sticky, gross hair.

It gets worse. If that’s even possible…

Only once we were in the car on the way to Massachusetts (and we finally had lights–the ones in the car) did I realize what I looked like. I was practically hysterical. Now, I’m not vain, but I care about my looks at least a little bit. You know, enough to be bothered that my hair was pink and sticking to everything, and that my outfit looked like I had either just graduated from clown school or escaped from an insane asylum. I’m talking that crazy. And, as I’m not a clown or an insane person, I was honestly quite bothered by it.

Well, according to Iggy, I am insane. He took a picture of me in my “fancy getup” and posted it on the internet. After of course, turning it into a meme that said, “Sanity? Ain’t nobody got time for dat.” Soon, I’ll be an internet celebrity. I’m ashamed.

So, back to what I was talking about in the beginning. Massachusetts. Now, you might wonder why I’m babysitting. The answer is: I need money. I know I told at least one person this: That hole in my wall from so long ago is still there. We finally got the quota. It’s $400. Now, as you might know, I’m not rich. I don’t have $400 just lying around. I have to earn it.

Right now, everybody’s out at dinner. I volunteered to babysit. I’m getting paid $30; it’s worth it. I need all of the help that I can get. Reilly’s currently watching TV. I just can’t get the kid to sleep. He’s crying because The Walking Dead is scaring him. Phsssh. What a wimp.

Yeah… I’m a bad babysitter.

I just turned it off and he’s calming down a little. He’s pretty cute when he’s calm. He’s about six, with big blue eyes and short, bouncy hair. He’s pretty small, which makes him all the more adorable. He’s a loudmouth, though. Talks a lot. Though, when he’s upset he just cries and cries and cries and cries… At least he doesn’t yell. I hate it when little kids do that.

Finally. Everything’s calming down. I’m calming down. He’s calming down.

Okay, everything’s better. Nothing much is going on now, so I’ll just recount the events from earlier.

Everyone left around 6 in the evening, so it’s been a while. I don’t even know where they went…

Okay, so right after they left, I was ready to crank up the fun. You know, teach the kid how to have a good time. Funny story… I couldn’t even find the kid at first. Truly, honestly, seriously. I panicked. I searched everywhere. I looked upstairs, downstairs, in the basement, and in the attic. Every single place that a 6-year-old could hide in. It took forever. I was giving up hope of finding him in the house, and so I walked to the car to search around the neighborhood in case he’d walked off somewhere. And you know what I found in the car? Reilly. Watching some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. I was just totally shocked. And a bit angry. The kid just turns and smiles at me and says, “Hey, Fang.”

I wasn’t going to lose the kid again. So, I went into the attic and found this old play-area for little kids. Thank God that Reilly is about as small as a 4-year-old… Anyways, I stuck him in it. He didn’t seem to happy. I left for a while and texted Max. When I came back, Reilly was dancing around like he really had to pee. So I took him to the bathroom. He told me that he “could go alone.” A little while later, I realized that he was still in there. At that point, water was seeping out from underneath the door. I was really worried for a while. Then, Reilly walks out, and I see that there’s about 10 rolls of toilet paper stuck in the toilet, and Reilly is flushing it repeatedly.

After that, I kinda realized that I couldn’t keep him in a cage. So I grabbed some of these weird, big multicolored blocks from his room and went outside. He told me he wanted to play tower. He explained to me that we both make a tower, and he decides which one is better. I decided to go along with it. To be honest, I was getting kinda scared of Reilly. He seemed really capable for such a small kid. I just built a tower. You know, all awesome-like. Mine was a bit taller than Reilly’s, which I guess made him pretty angry. He told me he was going to judge them and that I had to leave.

Instead of, you know, knocking over my tower or anything, you want to know what Reilly does to mine? He pees on it.

And after I worked so hard on it…

I only pray that this kid doesn’t get a hold of a lighter.

Fly on.

-Fang

A Not-So-Common Misconception

Do any of you guys ever have those moments where you wish you could just turn back time and do something over again? I don’t mean something serious, you know, like murder. Or kidnapping. Just simple stuff. Maybe a word you accidentally slipped out. Or a picture you wish you hadn’t posted on Facebook or something. I’m in one of those states right now. I didn’t do anything bad; don’t worry. Well, not entirely not bad. I just said the wrong thing at the wrong time. In front of a cop. I didn’t mean to. To be honest, I had no idea we were pulled over. No, I’m not in trouble with the law. Not even close. Well, technically. Instead, I’m in trouble with Dr. M. Who I almost got in trouble with the law. It could’ve been bad. It was almost bad. For Dr. M. It turned out pretty badly for me.

I feel like such a downer. I bet everyone expected me to start off with, “Merry late Christmas!” You know, in all caps. I couldn’t do that, though. For two reasons. One, I’m in a bad mood. Two, I honestly can’t. No, seriously, I can’t. My caps lock is broken. See, this is what happens when I try to use it: addgfrgjerngkerkgj. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Iggy broke it. We have braille on the keys on our shared computer (It didn’t used to be shared; Iggy broke his. The kid can’t be trusted with anything.) and Iggy was trying to type a paper. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out what the braille on the caps lock key said, so he just kept pushing it and pushing it… You can guess what happened. And if you can’t, I’ll tell you; it got stuck. Stupid computer. Stupid braille. Why can’t you be easier to read? Maybe you should be colorful, you know, vibrant? Oh, wait… nevermind…

In case you guys didn’t know, I have a bit of ADD. I tend to get off subject for this reason. Like, for example, last year, Max wanted me to to write a paper on George Washington. You know what it turned into? The history of carrots. Just now, I started off with Christmas, and ended on helpful criticism for the makers of braille (Or unhelpful–it really depends on the way you take it. And how stupid you are.). God, the sky is so pretty today-

Sorry, sorry, back on subject. So, Christmas. How was everybodys’? Mine was… interesting, thanks for asking. I’ll tell you guys about it later. After I talk about (or, blog about) what I was telling you about at first.

Dr. M took everyone out for pizza last night (In case you didn’t know, I love pizza. You’re free to send me some. Seriously.). The whole gang; me (Fang, obviously), Max, Nudge, Angel, Gazzy, Iggy, Total, herself, Magnolia, and Ella. And, recently, I’ve really gotten into reading. I know, total nerd. I really have, though. Anyways, I was in the middle of this book on the way home (unfortunately, I can’t remember the title). There’s this one part where the main character is browsing the internet, and she comes across this thing that says, “No, officer, her words aren’t slurred. She’s just talking in cursive.” Of course, I thought this was totally hilarious. I laughed my zebra-print thong and Double D sized Victoria’s Secret bra right off (Anyone get it? Nobody? Oh, okay…). And, you know, I had to say it out loud. Had to share the humor. Apparently, cops don’t like that kind of joke. In case you haven’t guessed, we had just gotten pulled over. Cops in the city/town we live in in Arizona have these questions they have to ask when someone gets pulled over. One of them is, “Have you been drinking tonight, or had any past alcoholic problems?” Obviously (the Fates must hate me), I chose this time to say–while laughing my Victoria’s Secret underwear off, I might add (Still no one? Don’t you people have a sense of humor?)–, “No, officer, her words aren’t slurred. She’s just talking in cursive.” It wasn’t quite in context, but the cop took it as, “She’s drunk.” Her left for a few minutes and talked into his little radio, then came back and told us he’d have to take us in. So, that’s how I spent my New Year’s Eve. Quite fun, eh? Hahahahaha… no. They wouldn’t even let us watch the ball drop!

Blame the book. It wasn’t my fault. Blame the author. Books are dangerous! They promote underage drinking! And drinking in general! And… drugs! Somehow… And, um, Harvard students! Yeah, that’s right! I went there! Need some Aloe Vera for that burn, librarians?!

I’m in huge trouble. Dr. M hasn’t said anything to me all day. To be honest, that’s how I know. Usually, when she’s mad, she just fumes. She never, never keeps it in. I feel like there’s an atomic bomb in our house, and it’s not a real one made by Gazzy or Iggy, or even one of the Gasman’s signature smells. Just a limited chance of sucking up before Dr. M blows.

I think I’ve been punished enough, to tell you the truth. Pre-punished, as I like to call it.

Finally, on to the subject of Christmas. The beautiful, life-sucking, wallet-draining, gift-shopping, girlfriend-complaining, mass-producing, stocking-stuffing, hall-decking blowout. I got some pretty cool stuff. If, by cool, you mean totally lame.

It was almost 9:00 and my morning had already become a disaster. I’d gotten a bucketload of One Direction stuff (“cute” as they may be, I really don’t have a thing for British guys, or guys at all). Gotten three pieces of bubblegum stuck in my hair. Gotten a horrendous Christmas sweater. Fallen down the stairs twice. Gotten three Pillow-Pets which had been delivered to the wrong house and couldn’t be returned. Received a manual on how to avoid big ships (From Gazzy, so, “Titantic wouldn’t happen again.”). A thing of “dog cologne” from Total… for Total. Other cruddy gifts include: a Snuggie, and a cat painting. There was one thing I was excited about, though. An iPhone 5. Dr. M had been dropping hints about one for months, and Max had even clarified that I was getting one. I could ignore all of the cruddy gifts, and it didn’t matter. I was so excited.

Dr. M set up this scavenger hunt around the house, complete with little hints in order for me to find my iPhone (At this point, she’d told me what the gift was, just hadn’t given it to me yet.). The last hint led me to Nudge’s closet. I wriggled under all her clothes and found this big, worn wooden box that said “Fang” on it. And opened it to find… Nothing. Just air and a tag that said, “Enjoy you iPhone, Fang! Love, Dr. M.” No iPhone 5. No hint.

Turns out, Dr. M had forgotten that she hadn’t bought me an iPhone. A couple weeks ago, she decided to get me a cat painting instead. And of course, she still set up the scavenger hunt. She totally, totally forgot.

And it’s not like it was an attractive painting. It could’ve been anything else. I don’t mind cat paintings (not that I like them, either). Anything but this one painting.

You want to know what it was a painting of? A cat in the litterbox. It’s incredibly ugly. Dr. M made me hang it in my room. I was so scared of what she would do if she knew I hated it, so when she asked me what I thought of it, I said, “It’s um… unique.” She, of course, took this as a compliment.

So, um, yeah. That’s pretty much it.

Fly on.

-Fang

Bad Poetry

So, once upon a time there was a cat.
And this cat had a really big hat.
This cat, he also had a gang.
In this gang was a boy named Fang.
Fang, the boy, had wings,
And he also liked wearing bling.
One day they had to fight a giant gingerbread man,
Which Fang defeated with a can of SPAM.
They banished him to a place far far away,
Where ponies and unicorns romp and play.
Then… something else happened.
The end.

Yeah, that was really bad. I bet it made you really sad. Sorry about this, Max dared me to do a post all in poetry, and I’m not very good at it, you see. I don’t know why she wanted me to do this. I’m just going to look stupid. That’s probably why… Oh, nevermind. It’s been a while since I’ve been posting. Sorry about that–I got an internet stalker–not to be boasting. This doesn’t make any sense. One day I’m going to live in a tent (tents?). Happy first day of Hanukkah to all. Tomorrow I’ll be visiting the Great Wall… of China… No, I really won’t. I’ll be here, bored at home. Doing something dumb on my new laptop. Which I had to get because some insane person hacked into my old one, changed all my passwords, made me a citizen of GREAT BRITAIN (I mean, really?), then decided to hack Dr. M’s credit card, yop. And, so… whatever. Feather.

Please “enjoy” the next poem I wrote for you. And, also… um, eat a cantaloupe too:

Christmas gifts are an interesting topic,
But I really don’t want anything exotic.
Just a cake, a… milkshake, a lake, and… uh, rake, a pair of skates, and a Kate… Upton.

Max told me to also include that I want a Hollister dress. Man, that girl is a mess. Not that you could send it anyways… I like Lays. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really like food (It’s just that most foods don’t rhyme with cake. Toothache! That rhymes with cake!). So, please send me some. Or I will shoot you with a Nerf gun. Or maybe a… Red-Ryder BB gun (Don’t you just love references?). But then I’ll shoot my eye out, so maybe not.

Here’s the last poem for today. Too bad I don’t get paid:

Fang is cool.
Too cool for school.
That’s why he has a jewel,
And a box of tools.
He also likes to swim in the pool.
He never drools.
His house is made of… tulle.
Yeah, I’m cool.

Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this rhyming thing. The phone goes ring-ring. I bet you guys are pretty bored. I have a… sword. No use stretching this stupid thing out. I hear there’s an app called Skout. So, bye. And to Max, honestly, why?

Fly on.

-Fang

Quite a Misleading Name…

Don’t you just hate it when people give products, or people, or things the most misleading names? It’s like the Cherry Tree in Dr. M’s front yard; no cherries. Same thing with fireworks. Yeah, they’re kind of fire, but not really. They’re pretty-lighty-thingies. And at least in my mind, pretty-lighty-thingies do NOT equal fire.

See, I’ve never seen fireworks before. Honestly, none of the Flock has. Before the fourth I didn’t even know that fireworks existed, let alone what they were. I didn’t know they were supposed to go in the sky, not on the ground. That would’ve been really nice to know. Someone should really specify what a thing’s use is. Haha; I can just imagine the one for fireworks:

WARNING:
Fireworks are intended for the sky (ahem, Fang). NOT for the ground. They are not supposed to be used for lighting actual fires, either. It’s just a misleading name. Don’t start forest fires with fireworks. Actually, please don’t start forest fires AT ALL. But that’s beside the point.

Now that I think about it, Gazzy and Iggy probably should have known what fireworks were. After all, they are the explosive geniuses. So we should blame them. It wasn’t my fault. I just lit them and started the-

Okay. Maybe it is a little bit my fault. More like a lot of a bit.

Gazzy, Iggy, and I had wanted to set off fireworks for the fourth. Have a little fun. Unfortunately, none of us really knew what fireworks were. And since we’d never seen them before, we didn’t know what they were supposed to look like.

Gazzy insisted they were for starting forest fires (Wow, that kid has a messed up mind. Who starts forest fires? Huh, Gazzy?) I thought they were for starting camp fires (The kind of fires normal people start. Then again, none of us are normal…)

Iggy made the point of saying that the firepit we had was way too small for all the fireworks we had. In his mind, they were for the ground. Fire’s good, right?

So we shoved the fireworks under a pile of twigs at the little beach access behind the beach house. We laid the extra sticks in a cute little spiral pattern around the main pile. Heh. Burning column of flame in a spiral pattern. “Cute”, huh? (Max is getting to me. “Cute” didn’t used to be in my vocabulary… What’s next? Wearing dresses on a daily basis?)

That night, we brought Dr. M, Ella, Total, and the rest of the Flock out to see what Gazzy advertised as, “The Bestest Fireworks Show on the Planet!”, but with lots of misspellings. The kid spelled fireworks F-I-E-R-W-U-R-C-S. Is that even possible? Apparently we haven’t taught him well enough… Somehow, Dr. M (who has SEEN fireworks before) didn’t notice- or at least didn’t think twice about- what is now known as “The Cute Little Spiral of Death”.

The second we lit the fireworks, the whole beach went up in flames, and Dr. M started screaming like a maniac and rushed Ella inside to call 9-1-1. Now that I think about it, Gazzy, Iggy, and I were just standing there the whole time like doofuses; smiling and presenting our “accomplishment”. You can’t really blame Iggy, though. He’s blind and had no idea what happened.

I didn’t notice anything was up until a firetruck pulled into the driveway, put out the fire, and handed Dr. M a ticket for “unauthorized use of fireworks”. She promptly handed the ticket to me. So now I have to pay a $200 fine with the money I don’t have. Yay. That seems like something a responsible parent wouldn’t do. Too bad she’s not my parent.

For the record, I hate fierwurcs.

Just wanted to say, sorry to the 1s of people that wanted to use that little beach access (which by the way, is Private Property). You 1s of people can still use it… it’s just a little, um, blackened. That’s a nice way to put it.

Hope you guys had a better fourth than me.

Fly on.

-Fang