Insomia Part 2

I understand now with perfect clarity what I had been fighting to understand throughout my twenties. Before my children came and took away any spare moments I might have had, before the husband sat down and asked me my thoughts every night, before adulthood came crashing down and demanded of me what so many others were willing to give, I fought to understand who I was. I wanted to know why I was frightened every night. Why, when the sun said it's final farewell, did I begin to panic. At night, when seemingly normal human beings cuddled up to their loved ones with thoughts of passion in their minds, I grasped hold of whomever I could as a drowning man would grasp for a single piece of floating debris.

Alone, fear would grip me. I would lay in bed, tossing and turning. It would toy with my emotions. Tell me there was someone outside ready to strike as soon as I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I know now that this is not the case. I realize that the only monsters I am to be frightened of are the ones I create for myself. Isn't that the case with all of us? The terrible, tragic events that play out in our mind's eye are much worse than anything reality could ever deal.

But, I knew none of this in my early twenties. My memories were buried deep into my subconscious, only brought to surface when sleep graced me with its presence.  I would try to sleep only to find myself staring at the clock. My mind would play it's cruel tricks on me. Shadows would become intruders. A creaking floorboard would be a man ready to grab me and haul me off to anywhere but safety. But, when I was in some one's arms sleep would arrive. It would kiss me gently on my forehead and whisper its dreams in my ear. There were no intruders. No kidnappers were waiting to snatch me. I was safe. To me, safety was not a locked front door. Safety was not something that prayer brought at night. Safety laid in the arms of a body laying beside me. Eyes closed. Breathing deeply.

Safe in the arms of my lover, I would sleep the sleep that had been denied to me. But, even then, my sleep was not uneventful. I would dream things that I had no memory of. I would awaken in a cold sweat, only to be lured back into the sweet darkness of sleep. When morning came, I would shake the frail memory of the night before and carry on with my day. I had no way of knowing that my dreams were my subconscious speaking to me. Telling me to remember. Never wanting to forget. But, I didn't know anything of this then.

It took time for me to learn to listen to myself. Ridiculous as it may sound, but rarely does anyone actually listen to their inner voice. We should. We should listen to what our subconscious tells us. This is how God talks to us. It is in our dreams, in our inner voices that He tells us what He needs us to know. It took me awhile to realize that.

I am now in my early thirties and I view my world much differently. I walk a path that my twenty year old self was unable to take. I listen to my subconscious as it speaks to me. I trust what it tells me. I analyze the information. I no longer see anything in the shadows. I find solace in a prayer and not in some one's arms. And even though sleep still remains an ever elusive creature, always at the edge, never quiet coming when beckoned, I do not feel the same panic when the sun sets. I view night as an old friend now. I have the tools to fight the devil as he stands on one side of the bed. He does not frighten me. For I have God on the other side ready to do battle.

Oreo Cookie Blues

As I stare into my cabinets and contemplate death by Oreo, a Phil Collins song starts to play in the background. Before I realize it, I begin to sway to the music. As Phil sings how there's only a memory of someones face, I begin to hum. And before long, I sing at the top of my voice. Long runs....screams of agony; the whole nine yards. I am feeling Phil Collins' pain.

Then I snap out of it. I shake off whatever depressed moment I was in and slam the cabinet shut. No Oreos for this girl. No more Oreos for the chick who sits at home on a Saturday night curled up in a Thomas the Train blanket that smells like a 3 year old. No more for the broad who would rather chat by text then hear another humans voice. I don't deserve the deliciousness of an Oreo cookie. I have taken advantage of the comfort it gives as it melts in my mouth. I no longer relish the bag that at one time could sit in my cupboard for a month. These days, the package only lives for two days before I mercilessly demolish it with a Pepsi.

No wonder my size eights are too tight.

I know what I am doing. I have replaced companionship with food. Instead of reaching for the phone and asking a friend to a movie; I reach for an Oreo and set my DVR to play whatever campy Lifetime movie I recorded for such a time as this. I have become the epitome of pathetic. What's worse is that it doesn't bother me. I don't feel the loneliness that consumes me. I now view my isolation as an old friend ready with a bowl of popcorn to discuss the bad acting of the movie I'm watching. It has become my dearest confidant. My bff. My homie. My road dogg.

And that, ladies and gents, simply will not do.

So, from now, I will throw off the Thomas the Train blanket that could actually use a good washing. I will no longer turn on Phil Collins, Celine Dion....or Yanni. Instead I will jam to the "Rump Shaker" or something along those lines. I will go out on a Saturday night, and not just to the bookstore alone either. I will find my social life once again. I will accept the invitations of socialization from well meaning friends. I will discuss the mundane. I'll laugh when it's appropriate. I will pat a distraught cohort on the back with a "There-there." In short, I will re-join mankind.

Of course, if all else fails, I could always end it all with some double stuffs and a glass of milk.

Fourteen (Chapter 1)

This is how I am going to die. She thought miserably. Not at home in my bed. Not in a hospital room with people who love me. No. I am going to die on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere; surrounded by houses and no one willing to help me. Wonderful.

She knew they heard her screams. She could see curtains moving in the windows as he drug her by her hair. She fought him with everything she had. When you are kidnapped during the night, you tend to go into survival mode. You don't think what your next move is. You just fight. You fight to stay alive because you assume you're going to die. After all, if he hadn't intended on killing her, he could have found a more gentle way to get her attention than yanking her out of the comfort of her bed.

Correction. The comfort of the couch. That’s where she had been laying. On the couch, wrapped in an electric blanket under the glow of the kerosene heater. In April, the nights are still as chilly as a February morning. The trailer she was staying in didn’t have any electric heat to it. An open oven turned on high helped heat the living room that they all slept in.

They. They being her family. Her mother and two sisters were sleeping in the living room with her. She shared the long couch with her older sister, Crystal. Her younger sibling, Renee, occupied the love seat. Her mother was stretched out in the recliner, snoring softly. It had been a quiet night following a rather dramatic evening.

The banging of the door had awoken her…..had awoken all of them. Her sisters screamed first as he barged into the small room. Paralyzed with fear, all she could do was stare as his massive presence filled her line of sight. Without a word, he grabbed her and tore out of the trailer just as he had entered it.

She heard the girls continue to scream as he hauled her out of the house. Yet, no one came after her. The mother that held her hand at night and kissed her forehead until all the monsters in her nightmares went away was nowhere to be found. She was learning - quickly- that monsters did exist. In fact, monsters could break into her home, in front of her family, and with a swiftness unlike any she had ever seen, pluck her from safety. No one followed behind as she cried and begged for mercy. No one shouted, threatened to call the police, or even uttered a simple protest as her legs dragged against the dirt. She held out little hope for a rescue team. At the age of fourteen, she was resigned to the fact that she was going to die.

I'm dying. But, that doesn't mean I'm going down with out a fight.

They approached his driveway and he stopped to throw her over his shoulder. She took this opportunity to wiggle free and make a run for it. As she felt his grasp loosen around her, she experienced the momentary sensation of freedom. Daringly she thought she may actually live through this.

No such luck.

With one hand, he reached out and snatched her back. Laughing, he tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. She kicked. She punched. She used foul language. His laughter rang out into the night.

Finally, she did the only thing she could think of. She pleaded for her life.

“Please,” she begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am so so sorry. Let me go. Don’t hurt me.”

He snorted. “Hurt me? Didn’t mean to, huh? Bitch. You don’t know the first thing about hurt. I promise you that.”

He began to climb the steps to his house. There were five steps in all. She knew them well. These were the steps that he first kissed her on. These were the steps where he told her he thought she was pretty. These were also the steps where she had told him she never wanted to see him again just hours earlier.

A lifetime ago, she had met him at his birthday party. She had stood on these doorsteps as he introduced himself. She was taken by the color of his eyes. Eyes that were neither blue or grey, but a mixture that left him with a gaze as intense as the sun. Her knees weakened as she averted her eyes from his stare; unable to hold it. She had no experience to draw on to handle the emotions that weld up in her. Over the next few weeks, she would feel her knees weaken, her stomach flutter, and her palms turn sweaty. Once she realized what was happening, she welcomed these little tell-tale signs of young love. He was what she wanted. He offered her the kind word that propelled her during a long day of school. He took her side when she argued with her sisters. He nodded in approval while she described a decision she had made that angered her mother. He was everything she needed and wanted, but never had. He was support. He was companionship. He was her ally.

Her mother approved of the relationship. Despite his twenty years to her fourteen, he was welcomed by her family. Their courtship had quickly blossomed from holding hands and light kissing to passionate love making. She gave him her innocence. He greedily took it.

Now, in a twisted sort of deja vu, she had come full circle.

First step. She began to sob. Not cry. Not beg for mercy. But sob.

Second step. She began her prayer. God, please. Please. Do not let me die. Where are you? Strike him down. Make me safe. I promise to go to church more. Just....please. Don't. Let. Me. Die.

Third step. The step where he told her he loved her. The step that saw him take her hand into his and look into her eyes....into her soul.....and tell her that he held her above all others. He would always protect her. Keep her safe. Take care of her. This sacred step was where she felt the warmness seep through her panties and down her jeans.

Oh, God. I pissed myself. God. Oh, God.

He felt the wetness on his shoulder. He chuckled softly as climbed the steps.

Sick bastard.

Fourth step. This was the step that had ended it all. It was on this particular step that he had accused her of flirting shamelessly. He called her a whore and spit in her face. Outraged, she had slapped him with all the force she could muster and told him they were over. He had shaken his head at her and laughed that laugh. The laugh she once loved, but now was sending terror throughout her body.

On this step. The fourth step. He stopped. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his house keys; almost dropping her in the process. It amazed her that he had consciously locked the front door prior to kidnapping her.

He was always responsible like that.

Fifth step. She quieted. Her fight was gone. Her prayers went unanswered. She had nothing left in her. No hope. No anguish. No fear. She simply was.

Aren't I supposed to be seeing my life flash before my eyes or something? Since God has gone on vacation and my mom isn't here, who else is there?

He opened the door. Fluid in his movements, he threw her across the room onto his couch. He quietly closed the door behind him.

She briefly considered calling for her mom. Perhaps she was outside in the bushes, waiting for a surprise attack. To be sure the police were going to show up at any moment. She imagined her mother throwing open the front door with a squadron of troops behind her. In a fit of gun blaze, he would go down and she would be rescued. As quickly as the thought entered her mind, she dismissed it. She knew no one was coming for her. She knew she was alone. Her mother was not there. God had other business to tend to.

“You don’t know how much I loved you,” he informed her. He looked at her with such detachment, she wondered if he had ever really loved anyone.

“Just let me go,” she cried. “Let me go back home. You don’t really want to do this.”

“Oh, but I do.” He informed her. “I do want to do this. You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then he smiled. She looked into his eyes and saw none of the shine that had stolen her heart. His eyes were black and dull. His smile revealed jagged, razor sharp teeth. He licked his lips with an elongated black tongue that was sliced down the middle causing the two separate pieces to wiggle in different directions. She grimaced and tried to look away as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. A redness crept up around his neck. Veins bulged in his temples as if he was straining to come up with a particular thought.

This is what the devil looks like.

It was the fire that consumed her that she would remember the most. Not the pain as the fire shot forth from his hands as he touched her. Not the smell of burning flesh as he entered her body. But, the heat itself. She could not fight the heat. Her screams seemed to fuel the flames even more. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't break free from his grasp. As he pinned her down, the fire swept over her. His fire swept over her.

The devil is surrounded by fire.

No words were spoken as he grabbed her off the couch. Her undergarments seemed to melt away from the heat. Her nightgown, having already traveled above her waist line, offered up no protection. She fought. But, his hands

hot, burning hands

were too strong. He chuckled as she tried to free her wrists. At one point, he threw his head back in laughter as she tried to bite him.

I really, really hate him.

Engulfed in flames, all she could do was pray for death. Pray that Death was kinder than the God she once believed in and would deliver her from this hell.

She had heard  stories of women who were in similar situations such as her own. Women, aided by God and fueled by their anger, becoming victorious over their attackers. This was not happening for her. Her anger fueled nothing but his delight; and God was nowhere to be found. She began to doubt these tales of heroism. Rather, she believed, all these women were lying to cover up the fact that they were too weak to protect themselves from the evil of the world.

God, whatever I did to piss you off, I am truly sorry.

At some point, while he was still inside her burning her flesh, the blackness arrived and began to take over her mind.

I'm loosing it.

The walls around her began to shift. Blood seeped through the door and windows. The sweet stench of vomit filled the room. Dark reds, purples, and browns danced through the air. Electricity crackled and popped. The carpet beneath her became a stream of black sludge that stuck to her body; caressing the raw spots where her flesh had been burned. She caught the faint sound of laughter from somewhere off in the distance. Smoke billowed out around her as the blackness spread throughout her mind. Before she lost complete consciousness, she thought she saw a lone figure standing in the corner. Watching. Waiting. With it's head cocked to the side, like it was listening for the same laughter that she'd heard only minutes earlier, the figure began to move towards her.

Hello God. How nice of you to finally show up.

She met It in the blackness. It reached out to her and offered her It's strength. It's raspy, coarse voice soothed her until she was free to listen. The dark killed the fire, It said. Here, nothing can touch you. Only I can save you, It informed her. Not God. There is no God here. Only I exist.

Yes. She realized. My prayers are answered. Save me.

The blackness crept around her as she searched for the source of the voice. She couldn't see anything; fore the blackness was total. She wasn't scared. She was oddly at peace.

Am I dead? Is this what Heaven is supposed to be? Surely, I'm not in Hell. I left Hell back there. 

You're not dead, It told her. You are here with me. I own the darkness. I brought it with me when I came to help you.

Where are you? Who are you?

Laughter reached her. Maniacal laughter that reminded her of the witch's laugh from the old cartoons her mom liked to watch.

Don't worry, It replied. I am what you've been waiting for. You called and I came. Now, open your eyes and see the chaos I created in your honor.

Cries. That’s what she awoke to. Cries and the smell of burnt flesh attacked her senses. She was too dizzy to think. Too dizzy to open her eyes.

“She’s coming around.” She heard a voice from somewhere over there. Another distant voice thanked God.

There is no God here.

“Are you ok? Can you hear me?” She shook her head. She couldn’t seem to free herself from the blackness.

“Stay with me,” the voice begged. “Open your eyes. Talk to me.”

No. Let me go back. This is Hell. Return me to the darkness.

But the voices kept on. Begging her to open her eyes. To speak. She prayed for the blackness to come back. In the blackness there were no voices demanding ridicules things of her. There was no pain. Nothing but sweet, cold…..blackness.

“Maybe we should call the police,” a small voice suggested. That sounded like her youngest sister, Renee.

Geeze, that’s an idea. Maybe you should have thought of that….I dunno, when I was being DRUG DOWN THE FRIGGIN ROAD!

Renee’s timid suggestion was ignored. The others argued amongst themselves about what to do with her and the body.

The body?

At that, she opened her eyes to a small band of people. Not the platoon of soldiers she had been hoping for. Her mother, sisters, and two men she didn't know were there. One of the men knelt beside her with a look of 

is that disgust I see?

worry on his face. Her mother stood by the door; while her two sisters huddled together in the corner. The other man was on the far side of the room accessing her attacker.

My attacker. She thought bitterly. My ex-boyfriend. My Robbie.

"I got to get out of here," her mother declared. "This isn't right. I can't stay here."

Her sisters nodded in agreement and they all left out the front door. She surveyed her surroundings and saw what her mother had been talking about.

The blood splatter on the walls told a gruesome tale. What was once brown paneling had been replaced with blood and what she assumed was human tissue. There was a distinct odor in the air. Had she thrown up? Bits of skin hung from the crooked picture frames. What seemed to be matted hair was stuck in the carpet; along with some type of black mud. And what exactly was that hanging from the ceiling fan? Intestine?  She touched her faced; feeling the swelling that would later become bruises. She shivered and looked down at her arms and legs.  Her arms had long scrapes down them; as if Jesus, Himself, had decided to show her what the nails of Calvary felt like all those years ago. Hand prints were burnt around her wrists and forearms. Her legs were not in much better shape. Skin had been burnt off of parts of her legs. Her left knee was swollen with a knot jutting out of it. Her right ankle was purple. And she wasn’t sure, but it looked like she was missing a couple of toenails.

Where is he? Where’s that bastard?

The bastard, or the bastard’s body rather, was sitting upright against the opposite wall of the room. He looked as if someone had taken a giant cheese grader and played ‘scratch-that-itch’ down his face and arms. His left leg did not look just right. It took her a moment to realize what was so off about it.

Oh my God.

His left foot was pointing down to the carpet. Where his knee would be visible; instead was the back of his leg. All one saw was his hamstring and his heel. His right arm dangled at his side. His stomach bulged out, revealing what the inside of a monster actually looked like. A tube of some sort ran from his abdomen to his mouth.

Tube? That's not a tube? Oh, God. Oh, my God. Did I do all that?

“Look at me,” a man commanded her. She looked up. “My name is Steve. I'm a friend of your mom's." He gestured towards the other man that was now backing away from Robbie. "We’re gonna get you out of here.” She nodded, unable to trust her voice. Unable to trust herself. She tried to stand but fell to the ground.

“She needs a hospital.” Steve's friend said.

"I know," Steve replied. "You got your phone on you?" When the guy nodded, Steve instructed him to call the police.

The friend stepped outside to make the call. She leaned her head against the wall, not caring how bloody or nasty it was. Her rescuers were here and that was all she cared about. She felt Steve gently rub her head and she let him. She could not cry as Steve was obviously doing. All she could do was be thankful that help arrived before Robbie had the chance to kill her. She had no memory of the blackness. All she was aware of was the here and now. The trailer. Steve, her hero, and the smell that seemed to live in the room.

Remembering Robbie, she stole a glance his way.

Robbie. Damn you Robbie. What happened to you? Why did you do this to me? What did I do to you?

As if sensing her confusion, the Body of Robbie looked at her and grinned.

She screamed.

Fuzzy Legs

This morning my handsome little three-year-old visited me in the bathroom as I was getting ready for work.

He looked up at me with his beautiful brown eyes. With as much seriousness as a child his age could muster, he shared what was on his mind.

"Momma," he began. "Your legs are fuzzy."

"Uh huh," I replied. "I know."

Why?" He asked.

I looked down at my angelic tax deduction. With as much honesty as I could muster, I began my explanation.

"See, honey. Your mother is a 34 year old single woman. Do you know what that means?"

He bravely shook his head no.

"It means that I don't have to shave my legs. It means that when you are at your father's house, I sleep on the couch wrapped in your Thomas the Train blanket. A hot night on the town to me means going to Barnes and Nobles. You don't have to shave your legs for that. You don't have to shave your legs to go see a movie with your sister and be home by nine. Sweetie, most Saturday nights find me watching old horror movies and drowning my sorrows in Oreos. I don't need to shave my legs for any of that either.

I don't hold out any hope that a man will visit me and rub his hand down my leg. I have given up on the notion....on the idea....on the belief that I will ever have a boyfriend. When a single woman resigns herself to the fact that she will always be single, she kind of forgoes the shaving of the legs. Leg shaving means you are hopeful. Baby, I lost all hope months ago. Now, I've just decided to risk hypothermia and leave my window open at night in hopes of the snake returning."

I looked at the three-year-old. "Do you understand all this?"

He presented to me a blank stare that I could not read. "Momma, can you just fix me some oatmeal?"

A Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

In about a week, you will break into my house to bring presents to my children. I am grateful to you for that. After all, Barbie's Dream house is very expensive and Red has her heart set on it. The three-year-old would really like a Buzz Lightyear something-or-other. I am sure you know better than me what it is.

I am quite certain that you will take care of the offspring's toy needs. So, this letter is not really about them. It's about me. You have neglected my needs for years now. Frankly, I am sick of it. So here they are for you to address.

1)I need a ceiling fan. My bedroom is not sure what temperature it should be. One minute it feels like the Arctic, the next the fires of hell are coming out from underneath the bed. I feel like a remote control ceiling fan would help.

2)I would really like a longer bathtub. See, as you know, I am 5'8". However, by some mathematical miracle my legs are 6 feet long. My bathtub can not accommodate them. I deserve an 8 foot long claw tub......with an endless supply of hot water and bubbles.

3)It is no secret that my love life has been lacking....love. And a life. Could you change this? You have a reputation of keeping an eye on everyone. Between you and me, I know about your peeping-tom habits. I promise not to tell Mrs. Claus if you bring me the man of my dreams. You know who I want. Make it happen, or I'll tell your wife about that one time....

4)I need some pots and pans. I love to cook and it is hard to cook with what I have. Between my numerous moves, I have lost a pan or two...or eight. I prefer the non-stick kind.

5)A couple of months ago, a snake crawled through my window and into my bed. He lovingly wrapped himself around my leg. I found him there and released him back into the wild. I haven't heard from him since. Could you please locate him? It hurt that he never called. I thought we had something special.

6)As you well know Santa, I don't sleep. I've counted sheep, demonic cows, vampire poodles, and little green men. Nothing has helped. I heard through the grapevine that you know the Sandman. If this is true, could you send him my way?

That's about it for now, Santa. I don't ask for much. Just a little of this and that to make me happy. Appreciate all you do. I know it's tough being a big man and having to fit through all those small openings. A single wide trailer must be hell on your back.

Sincerely,
Wes

P.S. I was serious about Mrs. Claus. I have photographs.....

Insomia Part One: The Devil

I know the devil's true name. It's not how the bible refers to him. It's not a name you would normally attach to a being of evil. But, I know it. How? Simply because he reveals himself to me every night. The devil sits on the edge of my bed and whispers his secrets in my ear. He mocks me as he points to the alarm clock and reminds me that I only have two hours to sleep before it's time to start my day. Yes, I know his real name. We're old friends. The devil and I.

His name is Insomia and I hate him.

He likes to pick the magic hour of 3 am to come and visit. He knows this is the hour that I am lost in a daze of thoughts and confusion. He sees this as his opportunity to seize my weaknesses. To play with my emotions. He laughs as I try to pull the blanket around me and cover my ears. He lays beside me and talks of my lonliness as if only he knows how I could feel. I beg for sleep with tears in my eyes. He laughs. If you've never heard Insomia laugh, I can only describe it as chilling. And beautiful. Insomia is my confidant. My companion. In the late night, he is the one that knows my true fears. My heart's desires. Insomia listens in on my prayers to God. He jokingly asks me if I truely believe God will answer the prayers of a sinner such as myself. He spills forth his bone freezing, hypnotic laugh as I meekly reply, "Yes."

The devil's name is Insomia. And I hate him.

Letter of Advice to the Red Head

Dear Red,

You are growing up so fast. Pretty soon you will be having your own adventures. You will fall in love. You will find out the meaning of true friendship. And you will see how evil people can really be. I have so much to tell you. I want to share with you all that I have learned in life. So, I decided to offer up some of my own lessons that I have learned over time.

Here they are in no specific order:

Always date a man with laugh lines. If he does not have these tell-tale signs, then you know he never laughs. And a man that is incapable of laughter is unable to make you laugh.

You don't need a lot of friends. You only need two. A guy and a girl. Choose these two wisely. They will be your soul mates when you have no one else.

Never dye your hair. God gave you that gorgouse red hair for a reason. It makes you stand out.

Always tell the truth. No matter what. The truth is easier to remember.

Do not hold grudges. A grudge takes so much energy to sustain. Rather, forgive and move on. Try to remember that you will make many mistakes in your life. You will, more-than-likely, have to ask forgiveness for these mistakes. Never ask for what you are unwilling to give.

Speaking of mistakes.... Know this: You are my child. When God decided to give you to me, He knew that you were going to be born hot tempered and strong willed. Your temper will subside over time. But, your will (hopefully) will remain strong.

You are going to face many challenges in life. Embrace these moments of adversity. They are what make you strong.

Always laugh.

You need to always use Aveeno Sunscreen. It's the safest for your skin.

Remember to never leave the house with fuzzy legs. I did this once and ended up in the ED. I don't know if the two are related; but just don't risk it.

You will have your heart broken in some form or another over your life. I can't say how many times it will occur. But, I can tell you with almost certainty, that a broken heart can love better and deeper than a heart that has never been broken. Therefore, you should never be afraid of the pain of losing someone. It is this pain that will enable you to love with a passion so great, it may just take your breath away.

Don't panic.

It's ok if you don't know what you're doing. No one does. Those that say they do are lying. Trust me on this one.

Don't believe someone who says they won't hurt you. As human beings, we are going to hurt one another. We all suffer at the hands of the ones who love us best. You just have decide if the person is worth the suffering.

Never trust a big butt and a smile. I don't know why this is. But, it was advice given out on the radio years ago. It sounded good then and it sounds good now.

There will be days when it seems like the sun rose specifically to humiliate you. Know this: It's true.

You can judge a man by the first kiss. Nice and firm is good. Weak and sloppy is not.

Over time I will offer more words of wisdom. I love you my Red Headed Angel. You are proof that miracles exist. You are proof that God loves me without bounds.

But, most of all, you are proof that God knew that I would end up a pretty decent person. If not, I don't think He would have trusted me with such a wonderful treasure such as yourself.

Love,
Your Momma

P.S. Take that big butt thing seriously, now. Ok?