The Christmas of 2001 was very special to me. I was 13 years old, and scared: 9/11

had me thinking of death a lot. My Christmas presents that year: my own copy of

LotR, an encyclopedia on Tolkien, my older sister bought me an ink pen, and a

notebook which I attempted to write stories in.

I read LotR that day until I fell asleep, clutching it and dreaming big, and trying

hard not to remember fear and gollum. It didn’t really work.

Awkward Fact: I became afraid of gollum/smeagol again. And in that apartment in

NYC, I had to tell myself that the walls were made by elves, that people were not

the race of Man in the third age of the book, but some sort of odd descendant of

the elves, and sometimes even that my glasses were special cause they allowed me

to see. Finally, I told myself a story about my cross chain necklace, and explained to

myself how I would always be safe as long as it was with me. (It was broken in

London, and has never been fixed).

The Christmas of 2003 was an important moment in my life. My mother flew into

England to spend the Christmas week with me. We slept on the couches of the

living room, as we were both too scared to enter my older sister’s room. I studied

my GCSE crammer books till I fell asleep over them. Mom went every day and

found a little trinket or piece of clothing and would come home and give it to me:

the first 12 days of Christmas, and the last day, Christmas, we went to mass at the

local church (which was not in English)- but was comforting anyways. (I missed

New York, and dad and my little brother- he got to go home that vacation and so

did my older sister).

I used to chase cars. Is that what it is even called? I will assume it is. I would run in

traffic and it was fun, until it was not and simply depressing. I have always been

afraid of cars, and I only want to walk always. This is probably really funny as I am

stuck in California, and I only ever want to be back home, in Manhattan.

Is it odd- that California is hell to me? There is nothing wrong here… It’s like the

Stepford wives- corny, bullshit that we moved to somewhere new and everyone is

an extremely nice robotic version of themselves.

Sad Thought: Having the knowledge that if I ever shut down, honestly no one not

even my family would care to try to fix me… I am the only one trying to fix me. And

the only one who will be there to sit with me afterwards and ask if I am well, and if

there are any stories to hear or tell…

Sometimes, I am very silly, and wish I could have my Academy, and that maybe

someday I could figure out how to be my own fucked up version of Homer.