Haiku for the best friend who ghosted me:

Our souls were thirty (ish).
You were “Mark,” I was “Heather.”
Now we are no more.

I said “Fuck” for the first time on Thursday.  I am 29 years old. It was Thanksgiving.

I saved my F-word virginity for you, Douglas James Warren. I saved it for you. I’ll never forget what I yelled to into my phone as I left a message for you, a message you may never listen to.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! I am so upset, Doug. I can’t believe you. Fuck you!!”

How can someone who loves me so much, hurt me more than I can bear?

When we broke up, we promised each other that we would do everything we could to stay friends. Maybe not best friends, but good friends. Maybe forever.

I asked you to never, ever unfriend me on Facebook again. I told you that it would kill me if you did. You promised me that you wouldn’t.

You unfriended me three times when we were “just friends” because you were afraid of heartache, because you couldn’t see me with another man. It was childish, but I forgave you. You loved me that much.

Now that you’ve unfriended me a fourth time, it’s me with an aching heart. You broke your promise. Emotional pain is the worst kind of pain. No band-aid can fix this wound.

Not only did you unfriend me, but you have also most likely blocked my number. That’s what makes this hurt even more than a broken promise, a fourth unfriending.

We were texting back and forth about your father because he has cancer and had just undergone his first chemo treatment. I had just lost my grandfather to cancer. I know what it’s like. I wanted to let you know you weren’t alone. I wanted to tell you to not make my same mistakes, as I lost a grandfather I barely knew.

You texted me your girlfriend had been in a funk ever since I picked up my dress at your apartment – the dress that had disappeared in your closet. Even though it had been her idea for me to drop by. I texted back that I had been in a funk, too, because you had been “weird.”

At your apartment, we talked about your father, your new band, my work and my knee. I let you know I was healing after our break up, but that I wasn’t back to good yet.  That I still want to puke every time I think about meeting your new Sara(h). I told you: “I will get there, but I’m not there yet.”

I had asked you if you still thought we could be friends. You said yes, of course. You said you’d like to meet up for coffee on the weekends sometimes to talk. I said that would be nice.

As I left your apartment, I told you that I (still) love you. You told me that you (still) love me. It’s become our way of saying we’re OK, that we’ll get off this roller coaster, like all the rides we’ve been on before. It’s not the same love we had during our relationship, but it’s what we had left.

Back to that text. I wanted an opportunity to talk through that funk, but not through texts. The last thing you texted me was: “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is the day that never comes.

You didn’t call me the next day. You never called me back.

I called you a week after “tomorrow” to tell you through tears that I had almost died that day. I called you once, I called you twice, just in case you hadn’t gotten to the phone in time. You didn’t pick up, so I texted you “Call me?” You were the friend I turned to when I got into a car crash, you were the friend I turned to when I fell in the parking lot, and you were the friend I tried to turn to when I had a near-death experience.

A week later, when you still hadn’t called me back, I texted you again. I asked you if you were avoiding me. I’m not your priority anymore, but I thought you’d at least get back to me, eventually. I thought you’d want to know that I was OK. I hadn’t been run over by a car, but I could have been. It was a traumatic event.

That’s when it hit me: You weren’t just avoiding me, you had burned our bridge.

I’m a reasonable woman. I am not a nightmare ex-girlfriend.

I think my picking up my dress freaked your girlfriend out. I think she gave you the line: “It’s either her or me.” I’d expect you to choose her. She’s your girlfriend. Except, I’d also expect you to call to let me know that we needed a break, that we needed some space. That your girlfriend needed more time before she’s OK with our staying friends.

We’ve been friends four or five years. I’ve lost count. We bonded over “Survivor” and misfit childhoods, of all things. I helped you through your divorce, you helped me through my anxiety. We were there for each other. We were best friends.

As your best friend, I coached you on newspaper design, I babysat your daughter for free, I supported and promoted your band, I wrote a letter of recommendation to help you get a new job, I helped you find and move into a new apartment and I convinced you to get your first colonoscopy at age 52.

After your colonoscopy, you told me: “You may have just saved my life.” I replied: “Let’s hope that I didn’t.”

Now we’re not even Facebook friends.

I am sincerely trying to heal from our breakup, but it’s hard to do when you moved on to a new relationship so quickly – with another, younger Sara(h). You told me it would take you two years to get over me, but in two months you were already Facebook official with another woman. That was harder than the breakup itself. I found out on my sister’s wedding day.

That call I never got? I was going to tell you that I when I picked up my dress, you were both insensitive and overly sensitive at my being there. It offended me. You told me, “Don’t cry” when I showed emotion while talking to you. Excuse me for finding it difficult to be in your apartment again after so long, the one that your girlfriend now shares with you! You told me, “No kisses” when we hugged goodbye. I wasn’t trying to kiss you. I wouldn’t do that to you or your girlfriend.

Friends don’t do that.

When I called you on Thanksgiving, I had just connected the dots. I’m not stupid.

Your phone didn’t ring. It had me leave a message.

Fuck you.

“A soul mate is someone who has locks that fit our keys, and keys to fit our locks. When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are.” -Richard Bach

 

 

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

A Missed Connection:

I was driving home on 132nd Street around 6:30 p.m. tonight, and happened to look over at you just as you looked over at me. It was so instantaneous that my heart skipped a beat. I looked away and smiled, and wondered if you’d felt it too.

I tried to drive side-by-side with you again, to get another look. I couldn’t do it. There I was — playing cat and mouse with a handsome man in a white truck with lumber in the back — on Valentine’s Day of all days! It seemed silly. What was I going to do? Wave? It’s not like I could introduce myself and ask for your number.

Whenever I got close, I chickened out and dropped back. I’m sorry I chickened out.

I wanted that second look, that second skipped heartbeat.

Name: Ferah Fletcher
Race: Halfling
Class: Ranger
Height: 4’1”
Age: 21
Alignment: Good

Ferah is a 21-year-old Halfling Ranger. She, like many Halflings, lived until recently in a caravan along a river in southern Amar. Travelers of other races – but mostly families of Halflings and Gnomes – make up her caravan. She is from the White River Caravan.

She comes from a long line of archers. The family practices the art of archery as if it were a religion. Her family specializes in bow making and fletching. Her father was a fletcher, her father’s father was a fletcher, and her brother will train as a fletcher when he is older. Her family name is Fletcher, after her family’s craft.

Her family is tasked with the administration of the caravan and is the principle broker of their large trade. Though bowying and fletching is their full-time occupation, they use their goods and practice archery whenever they can.

She is the oldest of three children. Her father is a widower. Ferah’s mother was killed mercilessly by a Human a year ago. Her mother was a very skilled bowyer; many say she “had a way with bowstrings.” She was training Ferah in the craft in the months before her death. Ferah has a 15-year-old sister and an 8-year-old brother. She is like a second mother to them.

Like many Halflings, Ferah has a reputation for thievery and guile. Several families in her caravan provide these as a service, and even deal in theft and information as traded goods. In her case, however, Ferah deals mostly in the theft of information. Ferah is first and foremost an archer – a warrior with a bow and arrow – but she is also clever, crafty and charming enough to draw even the deepest, darkest secrets from total strangers.

Ferah left her caravan recently to search for her mother’s killer and avenge her death. During her quest, she also occasionally finds work as a thief, spy or assassin. Ironically, for a Halfling archer who draws secrets “on the side,” Ferah keeps many secrets of her own.

Not much is known about the Human who killed Ferah’s mother, except that he is very tall, very dark and has a scar down the left side of his face. His alignment is evil.

He was following the river north on his own quest with a company of 50 men and 50 horses, intent on starting war. He ordered that the White River Caravan make him 50 sets of bows and arrows in a fortnight. The Human returned only a week later, demanding all of his gear and for half the price. When Ferah’s mother refused to sell him the gear, he picked her up and threw her. She died of internal bleeding overnight.

I was a zombie extra for a movie today! I’d never been undead before — not even for Halloween — so it was a lot of fun. Scary fun.

Zombie Orpheus Entertainment and Dead Gentlemen Productions are producing a (secret) zombie film project with Rennie Araucto of Good Hair Productions. I signed an NDA, so I can’t say much. I will say, however, that this movie beats Cowboys vs. Aliens!

This was the Facebook invite: “Give us six hours of your time and we’ll put your undead face on the screen! We need 40 more zombies to pull this off and you could be one of them.

“This secret project for a major online network will be released in six weeks. You’ve always wanted to be on film… NOW’S your chance to be seen by millions!”

Jim linked me to it. We were undead together.

The theme of the shoot was Hurry Up and Wait. All of us extras were waiting at Base Camp off set for instructions on make up, costumes, blood and what to do in our scenes.

Extras helped extras finish their costumes and makeup. A zombie extra named Jason Hay asked for my “artistic” help cutting up his clothes, which was fun. (I researched How to Make a Zombie Costume on eHow, so I was qualified. lol.)

Then, get this: Jason’s looked so good that other extras asked me to cut their clothes for them too! There I was, scissors in hand, cutting and ripping clothes for an assembly line of zombies.

I was a street-clothes zombie in a shirt and jeans. A zombie extra I nicknamed Ohio — because he’s from Ohio — cut my shirt up for me. It was an I’ll-cut-yours-if-you-cut-mine trade off. lol. I asked Jim to cut up my jeans for me, though. He enjoyed that.

Our makeup ranged from ick to eww to totally gross. Makeup for the freshly undead zombies was done last. As in, last minute. I was a freshly undead zombie.

I felt so lucky: Eric Pope, organizer of the Seattle Zombie Walk, and also big in the Ren Fair (as Wotan! Fairie Smasher!) and Faeriecon did my zombie makeup. (Not only that, he knows Jim through the Ren Fair!)

When I sat down in front of Eric so that he could do my makeup, he looked at me and said: “You’re too pretty. I can’t do anything with this.” Aww.

After some “brainstorming,” though, he came up with this back story: My zombie was a very messy brain-eater. Blood was dripping all down my chin and neck. My eyes looked very “zombie,” if you know what I mean.

Eric thought that I should also have a bloody hand print smeared across my face like I’d been in a fight, but there was no time for it. Zombie extras were being called to the set.

Jim and I shot two scenes together. There was a third scene with extras in it, but they didn’t use us for it. We did a lot of slow shuffling and groaning in surprisingly not that many takes — which was actually good because it was very cold, very rainy and very muddy.

There was a lot of waiting, but the waiting was a lot of fun too. It was like we were all at a party where everybody was a stranger to everybody else. We played my game of Zombie Dice — it was too perfect (and ironic) that zombies were rolling dice to chase after victims, eat brains or get shot.

My favorite zombies at the shoot: Jason Hay, Casey Matteson (aka Ohio), Eric Pope, Bijua N (aka Bi) and George Fisher. I also liked our “zombie wrangler” Rachel Araucto, Rennie’s sister.

Other highlights: Damon Vanhee, owner of Bandersnatch Studios — which does special makeup effects, prosthetics and props for film, print, video and more — was at the shoot! I used to work with him at the University Bookstore! I was stoked to see him. Absolutely stoked.

After the shoot, Jim and I stopped at Safeway and a worker there saw me and said: “Are you OK?”

My shower was reminiscent of the scene from Psycho with all of the blood that I washed off.

I’m now signed up to be a zombie extra again for JourneyQuest. Too cool!