Dear You,

It seems sometimes I will need to write to you more than others.  I guess this is one of those times.  Here I’ve gone and rambled on and on about myself, and I know nothing about you.  I’ve spouted on about my family crisis and I don’t even know your favorite color.  I suppose this isn’t the best way to get to know you, but I haven’t forgotten you.  Looking back, I’m not sure how much you know about me.  I wonder what you’ve gathered so far?  I realize how confusing things might get; I realized just earlier my characters might need names.  That makes me Elle, and the others will be made up as we go along.  Now, so you don’t get further confused, the names are made up, but the people and stories won’t be.  The locations and details may be unnecessarily vague, renamed, or changed when they aren’t important, but the interactions will be real.


I just feel like I need to dump some of this out, some of myself it seems.  I’m 27 and already I feel full, but not in the good way.  Who I am specifically, and where I am geographically aren’t conducive to full disclosure.  That’s what I intend; I have a lot of life left, I can’t be over it all ready.  So, I’m going to get some of it out, and you get to make your speculations about the rest.

Christmas brought up a memory my parents thought I’d forgotten.  It’s possible I had for a while.  As my parents and I watched children climb on Santa at a family gathering, they asked me if I remembered learning about Santa.  I wasn’t really sure, until the kind of memory that bulges your eyes and makes you squeal hit me.  I jumped up and down as I remembered my 3rd Christmas; I’m not insane, my birthday is around the corner.  I was nearly 4.  “The Barbie Dream House!” I yelled, maybe a little too loud.  My parents started laughing so hard.  I caught them putting together my Christmas presents, at about 3 am.  They made the valiant effort of every parent to get me back into bed.  They tried to convince me I was dreaming, they offered treats, tried to distract me with the bathroom, but the Barbie dream house, IT CALLED TO ME.  From across the living room of our tiny trailer, it screamed to bring my Barbie dolls and GI Joes.  On a side note, I thought Ken was a boring, Barbie needed a cool guy, with guns.  My parents gave up, I could not be dissuaded from my main objective.  I remember running out of my room, still in only underwear, with pajamas and dolls filling my arms.  I ran shrieking at my parents, dropping toys and clothes at their feet as I thanked them in the obnoxious way that only I could.  I remember my sleepy parents watching me play with my new toys until we all turned back in around sunrise.

Seeing my parents laugh about it, I know it was ok, but I’m sure they were mortified in the moment.  I hope my profuse thanks meant something, because I meant them, I remember literally crying and saying it was a dream come true.  I was 3, and the Barbie Dream House had an elevator.  They told me I had probably woke up because the doll house was harder to put together than a particle accelerator and they were in the living room cursing like sailors.  I recall they tried to sell me on Santa again the next year, but I remembered.  I wasn’t having it, they managed to keep me out of my presents until Christmas, every flippin’ year.

So, no I know why I always knew about Santa, at least from my perspective.  I was always really thankful for my gifts, knowing my parents had worked and saved for them.  It’s also possible you know a little more about me.

Until next time,


No, seriously

No, seriously