Gaining the strength to be vulnerable and open up to others can often lead to tears, but it is far better tears than the ones you cry over loneliness. If you cry for the right people, tears are strong - if you cry for the wrong ones, you can gain strength from learning and fighting for a better way, and thus lessen your tears.

Tears are not universally good or bad, but we should only cry about what truly matters to us.

It was a glorious night to kill. Moonlight reflected off the woman’s knife. Not the classiest tool, but it did its job.

Her left hand twitched.

Not yet, I’ve waited this long.

She checked her reflection.

Innocent, as long as nobody paid attention. Thank goodness nobody ever paid attention.

Seattle came as a reprieve for the both of us: you had just been re-diagnosed after spending a full year in remission, and wanted to do something radical to take your mind off of things before your next round of treatment. I had just moved to Seattle only a month prior and was feeling rattled by the adjustment period, having forfeited Atlanta’s familiar warmth and Southern amiability in exchange for a new career in the pacific northwest, which was accompanied by gray skies and a perpetual drizzle. I didn’t know a soul in Washington, and my newfound solitude felt painfully disarming. I suppose we both needed a fresh start and good company. Your trip came at a crucial time for the both of us - we were able to give each other the same camaraderie and support that lifted our spirits when we were young.

I picked you up from the light rail and navigated us two blocks in the wrong direction before course-correcting our route back to my apartment. It was 1am by the time we got back to the apartment, and yet we still managed to chat for over an hour, falling back into a rhythm of conversation in that colloquial fashion that old friends do, as if the months apart were just a minor ellipsis. You told me that you’d met a girl and were falling in love all over again. I told you about the boy I had been smitten for who had ghosted me recently. You told me you had started a new job. I told you how surreal it felt to be living out west. Round and round our stories went until we could hardly hold our eyes open. This was how most of our evenings transpired, getting lost in each other’s stories until they lulled us to sleep.

Over the course of the week, we hit as much of the city’s delights as we could. I showed you my favorite coffeshop that whipped up a mean mocha (your favorite). We wound through steep streets and narrow alleyways, and I pointed out boutique art studios, record stores, and bookshops. You made us stop and visit each establishment, making each shop feel as essential as the previous one, and I stood there smirking in disbelief as you managed to make a purchase from each venue: a graphic print (which you never intended to hang), a classic record (despite you not owning a record player), a book from an author you’d never heard of (which you ended up forgetting on my nightstand). “We gotta keep the little guys afloat,” you’d tell me. “Small businesses get swallowed up without our support.”

Whatever leads you to joy, I thought to myself. To more joy, and less worry.

We tasted the town, visiting cafes, candy dispensaries, ice cream shops, making a pitstop in a coffeeshop to recharge ever so often. You filled your tiny backpack with sour gummies, gummy bears, and jelly beans. By the end of each day, we were crashing from the hyper-caffeination and sugar rush, with our feet blistering from the marathon of walking we did to cover each neighborhood, and our bellies bursting from whatever eclectic spread of food we’d scavenged for the day: ramen shops, hawaiin barbecue, fusion seafood, and sandwiches filled with fresh fair. The steady ebb and flow of joy left us feeling tired and full.

I remember the ferry ride over to Bainbridge Island, where you made an innocent bystander take a picture of us doing the iconic Titanic “I’m flying” scene, where Jack hugs Rose from behind as she extends her arms out, spread-eagle (I got to be Rose).

I remember when we climbed to the top of Gasworks Park and you started to cry. The sun shone so brightly over the harbor, the boats sailing smoothly along the bay and kites soaring high in a cloudless sky, the city skyline perfectly reflected off of the still surface of Lake Union. We held each other for a while on the top of that hill, overlooking the water. You cried and I just held onto you and we didn’t say anything and that’s all there really was to say.

When we let go of each other, we sat down and you took pictures of the bay with a smile glued ear-to-ear. That’s how I remember you - flat-bill hat turned backwards, looking through the lens of your Nikon, the small spaces between your square teeth curving up to form a happy dimple on your right cheek. We sat there just watching the world unfold on a Seattle hillside, no one and nothing at all mattering, finally feeling grateful to just be a part of the world.

You passed away quietly the following autumn, and now I’m finding that Seattle is a memory I go to in my mind from time to time to be with you. When the weight of the world feels like too much for me to bear, I go to the top of that hill in Gasworks Park and you’re still there with me. The other day, I even found that picture of us on the front of the ferry, the one where you’re hugging me from behind, my arms extended in a spread eagle. You’re Jack, I’m Rose, and we couldn’t be happier. I smiled for the first time in a while since you’ve been gone, and it made me think of you.

We went to San Fransisco, my parents, younger brother and I. We stayed in a cheap motel, and it really was my time to shine. To show I’m no baby. So me and my brother got a room by ourselves.

Naturally, we started jumping on the bed.

After a few minutes of this, we got a call from what i assume was the reception downstairs: “I don’t know what you’re doing over there but you’re making my dog crazy!”

So what is it about bad boys that girls (I) just can’t seem to get enough of? Ok, not to sound like some “nice guy” comedian who still lives in his mom’s basement playing Magic: The Gathering, but I am said girls, therefore I’m definitely not setting back feminism like thirty years here, right? Anyways, I’m just curious why some (just calling out myself here) girls always have to fall for some brooding, dark horse whose only personality trait is looking hot, and wearing a shit ton of black. Like, sure, he might be cute, but can he pay off my student loans, or get me into NYU as a transfer? Can he snag me a part-time job that doesn’t make me want to bang my head against the wall in sync with the BPM of Mariah Carey’s greatest hits? Can he make kimchi fried rice without the rice going all mushy? I don’t think so!

While I have realized that my ideal type of man probably possesses the most toxic concoction of traits I can think of, I simply don’t care. I have a whole life (or 12 years, according to UN climate scientists) to find some guy who can actually hold a conversation and knows the secrets to perfect kimchi fried rice, but until then? Might as well go after the first dude I see who can rock a spiked denim jacket? Am I right, ladies? For the sake of his privacy, I will call the previously mentioned dude, “Astro Greyson”, and this is the story of how I totally blew my chances with him this past summer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The year is 2019. I have finally, finally graduated from high school. I’m probably going to college unless they reject me last minute, and now I have a learner’s permit. I’m basically unstoppable. It’s still summer, and I’m still sad I’ve never had that cute fling that eventually fizzles out, but was fun while it lasted (or any romance at all, for that matter). So what happens when an impulsive girl, aspiring to be mature, college lady empowered in her sexuality, decides to finally get off her high horse, and make the first move on the stupid punk guy she’s been crushing on (and mildly stalking) for almost a whole year? As y’all are about to find out, it was a total shitshow, but also a great learning experience! (Let me just clarify this was completely out of character for me in every way possible. Once, I saw somebody I liked while in the car with my mom, had an intense panic attack, and jumped out crying the second we got home.)

I’d seen Astro around a lot, already found his Instagram (obviously), and there had been a lot of eye contact going on over the past year (so clearly he was in love with me and this was the perfect opportunity for me to go for it?). I figured it beat staring at him from across the trash ridden field where everybody hangs out after school. What could possibly go wrong? So with that, some slight peer pressure from my friends whom I love dearly, and my absolute last brain cell -- I sent him a cringey direct message via Instagram. It went something along the lines of: “hey! I see you around all the time and think you’re hella cute. here’s my number :) (1(234) 567-8910)”. Additionally, with all my genius, I decided not to have a single picture of myself on my profile, because he’d just be able to figure out who I was, right? Right?

(Ok you all probably think I’m really crazy and creepy now, and I promise I’m not! And, also, what in God’s name does this story have to do with the “unknown”? Ok, to be honest, I have definitely gotten off track and am already forgetting what my own point but don’t worry about it, it’s coming.) Anyways, two painstakingly long days later, I got a response.

Astro was really nice about the whole thing. He said that, while he had no idea who I was (ouch), I should say hi the next time I saw him, and also asked where I’d seen him around. In retrospect, I really appreciate that he didn’t immediately block me and call the cops (very Christian of him). I struggled for days wondering how I should reply and keep the conversation going. Eventually, in all my glory, I decided on a ~quirky manic-pixie-dream-girl esque self-deprecating joke, involving a reference from the Oscar-nominated classic: Ice Age. Yes, it was at least thirteen times as bad as it sounds. So bad, I will not even attempt to paraphrase it, as I might actually die from embarrassment if I think about it for too long.

Yeah, so I never heard back from him again. Surprise, surprise! Fortunately, I was able to escape the complete mortification of my actions by running off to college shortly after. But I still think this short-lived false bravado I conjured up, literally, all, the, time! And Astro is on my mind a lot more than I’d like to admit. Is it because I’m still creepily attached to the idea of him? Maybe. Or because things feel so unresolved? So “unknown”? He now knows about my existence and has some sort of conception of me, but I still know absolutely nothing of him. Not if he has magically figured out my true identity, or if I ever had a shot in hell of making something happen between us, not if I’ll ever be capable of making a move on somebody again without being a total idiot.

Even though it was most definitely the most embarrassing moment of my life, I had to make myself vulnerable for once. To try manifesting my own fate and take control of the uncontrollable, mysterious deity that is life. I couldn’t continue hiding away in my made up-comfort zone-dream land where nothing ever happens and I pretend I’m fine with that. Even though I might not ever see “Astro” again, or get any closure, I know now that I had to do something, even if just to prove to myself that I could. When I hit “send” with that first message, I resigned myself to the “unknown”.

Despite the covered area on top of the stairs, heat leaked into my clothes, causing me to break out in a sweat. It was, by far, one of the hottest days of summer. Unfortunately for me, that meant that Ocean Meadows was packed from open to close. My summer job as a lifeguard paid well, but sometimes, bratty kids and their more annoying parents weren't worth the dough. What made it all worth it, though, was Savannah Williamson. She was my coworker who worked at the partnering slide to mine. There were two slides in Ocean Meadows. One covered, the one I worked, known as "The Whirlwind." The other that Savannah worked was an open slide, for those not brave enough to face the darkness, called "The Gulf." 

Nothing particularly stood out that morning. Children of all shapes and sizes came barreling through the gates as soon as we opened at nine. Savannah and I were stationed, ready to guard the slides with all our might. Every three hours or so, we'd switch out with other coworkers for a break, and then switch back in a little later. But, it was early morning, and the lines to the slides formed. The job was easy. Estimate that the kid was tall enough, send them down the slide (they had to lay down with their arms crossed), and then watch for them to reach the bottom, where Allison Winklestire swam. Allison was another lifeguard, posted to make sure the children swam out of the way fast enough and reached safety before another hyperactive child came barreling down. 

It was about halfway through my first three hours, and, as stated, it was average. The screams of children as they hurled down the slides no longer bothered me. I had to send a kid back down the stairs because he didn't meet the height requirements. Then, I had to speak to his pissed-off parent that showed up five minutes later. I shared glances with Savannah the whole time, and she giggled as the mother yelled at me for being "inconsiderate." 

Savannah and I made small talk as we waited for the children to get to the bottom. We talked about weekend plans, and I believe I invited her to see a movie with me Saturday night. Savannah blushed happily and agreed to go with me. Unfortunately, we never followed up on those plans. As what happened that day, that awful, horrible day, left a parent without a child and me without a mind. 

It was nearly an hour before our first break. Sweat pooled on my forehead, and I was hoping Savannah wouldn't notice. A teenager in neon green swimming trunks went down "The Whirlwind." I glanced over my shoulder, watched him come out with a splash, then motioned for her to come up. There was nothing special about her. A child, no more than ten, stood, waiting for my signal. She had rosy cheeks kissed with freckles and water droplets. She came forward, stuck her body into the slide, and looked up at me with chestnut eyes. 

"It's my first time doing this." Her voice was high-pitched, reminding me of my baby sister back home. She favored her, in a way. The way her eyes sparkled with possibly and comfort. But, somewhere behind those eyes, I saw fear. 

I leaned forward, making sure she could hear me over the rushing water. "It's okay. It is loads of fun." 

"Hey, buddy," a grown man called from behind me, "Some of us are waiting 'ere." 

I held out a finger to silence him, but I heard him scoff. 

"You've done this before?" The girl asked, calling all of my attention back to her pale face. 

I nodded, and the guy in line groaned. I heard Savannah tell him to keep quiet. "It's fun, I promise." 

"But it's dark. And scary. And there could be monsters."

Reassurance coated my words, "I promise that there's nothing bad that could happen. If there was a monster in there, it would have already eaten everyone else up." 

She stopped to look around for a minute, eyeing her surroundings carefully. She leaned in closer to me and whispered. "Not just any monster. The monster."

I placed a hand on her shoulder. "It can't get you here." I didn't know what her monster was, but everyone has one. 

"You promise?" A new look in her eyes, trust. 

"Promise." I held out my pinkie, showing I meant it. And we locked our pinkies together, a sign of friendship in a single gesture. 

After I let go, she did too, letting her body fall into the darkness of "The Whirlwind." Shouts of excitement followed her, and I smiled. 

"Thank goodness, took 'er long enough." The man in line mumbled. 

Then, silence. 

Not from those waiting in line. They all buzzed with excitement. 

No shouts coming from the slide, from the girl, no anything. 

I glanced over my shoulder to find that the girl hadn't reached Allison just yet. Puzzled, I turned toward Savannah, who was smiling at me. 

"You were so good with her, you know." She said, causing my sunburn to turn a darker shade of pink. I did my best to ignore the warmth she caused in my heart just by speaking. I focused on the problem at hand. 

"Has she come out yet?" I asked, but Savannah looked confused, so I added, "The girl. Have you seen her come out of my slide?" 

Savannah shook her head, looking down at Allison as she motioned for the next in line to come forward. "No, why?" 

"She's not out yet." 

"Dude, seriously? What's the 'old up?" The man in line grumbled. "I've been waiting for, like, twenty minutes." 

"So has everyone else." I shot back, my eyes trained on the bottom of the slide. A few moments later, the girl was still not at the bottom. I leaned down into the mouth of the slide, calling into the darkness. "Hey, kid, are you still going down?" 

No answer. More snarky remarks from the guy in line. Another silencing from Savannah. 

"Kid?" I called again. Nothing. 

I turned to Savannah, "Will you watch my line? Don't let anyone come down. I'm going to ride down and see where she is." 

Savannah nodded, her perfect hair blowing in the ocean breeze. She offered me a smile. I smiled back. The moment was ruined by the guy in line who said something about a refund as he stormed down the stairs. 

I took off my sandals and sunglasses and placed my feet in the rushing water. It felt good in the summertime humidity. Laying on my back, I pulled myself forward with my arms. The last thing I hear before I plummeted was the eerie and curious whispers coming from the people in line. I zipped down, being thrown left and right in the darkness. I did my best to focus my eyes, looking for any sign of the girl, but it was useless. Water dropped on my forehead, mixing with the sweat that had formed earlier. It was warm water, though, so I wiped it off with the back of my hand just before I splashed into the pool below. Confusion and sunlight crowded my eyes, as I did my best to adjust them on Allison. Her tan skin was scrunched at her forehead. I shook the water out of my ear and frantically looked around for the girl. 

"I was gonna ask what was taking so long. Why haven't you sent a kid down in like, five minutes?" Allison watched a child skidded across the water from "The Gulf," helping them cross to the stairs while she awaited my answer. 

To be honest, I didn't have an explanation. 

"I sent one down. Like a ten-year-old girl. She hasn't come out yet." 

"You're pulling my leg." 

"I'm not. She's not there, that's why I tried to look for her, but she's just gone." 

That got her attention, and she finally snapped her eyes in my direction for the first time. Fear crept over Allison's face as she looked at my forehead, and then at the slide behind me. 

"What?" I finally asked. 

"Are you bleeding?" 

"I don't think so." 

"Your hair, and your face, there's blood." Concern was woven into her words as she lifted a shaky hand to point at "The Whirlwind." 

I whipped around, and then I swam closer to Allison. Little by little, the water was turning a light pink. Then a darker pink. Unless Savannah had split a pink lemonade, there was no logical explanation. 

The two slides were shut down immediately. Allison radioed our boss, and I raced to help cut the water source. Savannah helped everyone exit the stairs in a (somewhat) orderly fashion. Panic swept over Ocean Meadows. The people were utterly irritated and curious. 

Allison, Savannah, Mrs. Nash (our supervisor), and two other lifeguards joined us at the top of the slides. Wind tossed our hair as an anxious crowd waited below. There were other lifeguards posted around the pool, keeping anyone from entering. Now, the once pinkish water that was leaking turned a dark shade of crimson. Little bits at a time, blood, we figured, streamed into the pool. The water was turning murky and my stomach ached. 

"Alright, listen up," Mrs. Nash was yelling. She always yelled. "As Michael has explained, a child went into this slide," she motioned, "and never came out." 

Savannah shivered. Under any other circumstances, I would have wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in close. 

"We've shut the water off and a team is working on draining the pool. We've notified the police to help search for the child, but the summertime keeps them rather busy. They'll send one over to investigate as soon as they can. Until then, we need to do everything we can to find this missing child." Mrs. Nash paused, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "The child's parents are trying to be located now." 

As if on cue, a scream echoed from the crowd below. A woman, it sounded like. She was screaming a name, searching, looking. I watched as a lifeguard rushed to her, and spoke to her. The woman's movements were frantic. A sinking feeling slid down my throat and made a nest in my stomach. The woman, unmistakably, was the girl's mother, searching for her lost child. At that moment, Mrs. Nash's walkie-talkie crackled to life. A man's voice on the other end. "The child's mother is here with me. She says the girl's name is Lily Hartwell." 

Mrs. Nash replied, but I watched the crowd below. Now, the lifeguards were beginning to shut down Ocean Meadows. A siren blared close-by. All because of this girl, this Lily. I was the last person to see her. 

Mrs. Nash started speaking to us again. "We need someone to search the slide since it's dry now. See if there is any sign of her there." 

Without a second thought, I shot up my hand. 

Mrs. Nash nodded at me. "Alright, Michael. You're up." She tossed me a flashlight, as well as a walkie-talkie, and offered me a warning. Savannah squeezed my hand before I began my journey. 

And I was off, doing my best to slow myself when needed, pressing my palms against the side of the slide for support. The flashlight beamed up ahead, but so far, I saw nothing at all. Then, I heard it. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

I stopped myself with my hands and feet. Pulling the walkie-talkie from my belt, I pressed the button and radioed Mrs. Nash. "I thought you said they turned off the water." 

A few seconds later. "They did." 

I put the walker-talkie back on my belt with a sigh. I slowly let my hand off the side of the slide and slipped down further. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

It was steady. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

I rounded the next turn. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

It was closer. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

I was closer. 

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. 

It came faster now. I rounded the last corner before the slide ran into the pool, and then, I saw her. 

There she was. Not on the slide. On the roof of it. I inched closer. Every part of her body was pinned to the top of the slide. If I went any further, I would be directly underneath her. 

What's left of her, anyway. I could tell, upon arrival, that no life remained. In my short time on this earth, I knew life in someone's eyes. Her chestnut eyes once rimmed with possibly, comfort, and fear, were now lifeless. Dull. Bloodshot. Bored. 

Her pale face was more of a ghostly white. I could not stop looking. Her throat was slit, causing blood to drip onto the slide from her wound and her mouth. 

I nearly vomited. 

Drip, drip, drip went her blood. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

But what shocked me most was the peculiar smile that curved on her lips. It was unnatural, inhumane. She looked like the monster that hid in my closet. I inched forward. Carefully, I reached out my hand, trying to figure out how she was sticking to the top of the slide like that. As soon as my fingers grazed her forehead, a scream escaped her smiling lips, and she plummeted, face first, onto the slide. A gasp escaped from me, a scream about to bubble over. 

Mrs. Nash's voice rang out from the walkie-talkie, but I didn't listen. I watched as the girl, as Lily, slid down the rest of the slide. Sliding in her own blood. I believed I imagined it, but, before she rounded the final corner, she picked up her head, and she looked at me. 

Her cold, dead eyes stared at me as her inhumane smile grew wider. And wider. 

She kept sliding. I didn't dare follow. I heard her body hit the cement pool, as it had already been drained. People screamed. Mrs. Nash kept trying to contact me. I didn't move. 

It felt like hours that I sat there. But I knew it wasn't long. After I emerged, bloodied and terrified, Savannah greeted me. She was crying. And for the first time, I realized that I was too. She wrapped her arms around me, frantically telling me about the state of the child. I didn't have the heart to tell her I already knew. That would also be the last time I spoke to her. 

Ocean Meadows closed down for the rest of the season. People hung up signs and pictures of Lily as a memorial. Teddy bears were left on the sidewalk near the front gate. Our town cried. The next summer, Ocean Meadows sent out a message saying that we would reopen at the start of summer. People revolted. Ocean Meadows shut down, for good, shortly after. 

Despite the questions surrounding the event, even those the police asked, I never gave them an answer. I never once told anyone what I saw that day. I didn't want people to know that I felt utterly responsible for what happened to Lily Hartwell. I told her the monsters couldn't get her. I lured her into "The Whirlwind." And that's where she died. Alone. And scared. Because of me. 

No one ever solved the mystery of what happened to Lily. I've gone back to Ocean Meadows, searching for answers. I never found any. Just old bloodstains on the cement pool. Rust forming atop "The Whirlwind." Nothing. Lily's family, her mother, and everyone who knew her were angry. Angry about the ambiguity of it all. To be fair, I was too. There's not a day that I don't think about her. Her sun-kissed cheeks and her chestnut eyes. Her blood, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping. Her smile. Whatever happened, it made me upset, knowing that I was the last one who ever saw her alive. Something killed her. And we'll never know what. She haunts my dreams every single night. I've been on medication to get them to stop. They don't. Lily Hartwell was an innocent. Her life, gone in an instant. Mystery grew thick. But others forgot. I believe that, if I told anyone what I saw, they'd never forget. But I don't want to tell. Lily's secret, her horrible, terrifying secret is safe with me. I promise.

Humanity died fast when the list appeared.

First came the suicides. When you see yourself at the bottom of the list that supposedly represents all of humanity, it’s hard not to lose hope.

Then came the murders. Of the people who had discovered the list. The people who kept it running. Some decided that the list was fake, and that anyone who believed in it deserved death.

Eventually, we stopped. Killing and fighting and tearing each other apart. At least for a while.

I was born with a number on my hand. I don’t remember what it was. No one can tell me, because you can only see your own number. But right now, my number is 3,425,007. Out of the eight billion people on the earth.

That’s one of the better numbers. My mom told me once that her number had dropped to 6,331,909. I thought she was kidding until I heard the gunshots. One that took my sister. And one that took my mom.

I don’t know why my mom killed my three-year old sister. I don’t know why she killed herself. And I don’t know what the number on her corpse was. Because as far as I know, your number stays with you forever. Even when the only one who can see it is dead, it lives on.

I’d like to imagine my little sister was 1 on the list. Maybe 2, for that time she killed my fish by pouring too much food into its bowl. But other than that, she was perfect. I can’t understand why the cosmic power that decides where we stand would put her at anything less.

No one else understands, either. Everyone has their own idea of the list. I guess that before it showed up, people were content with their own views of right and wrong. But now that someone is deciding for us, we’ve gotten desperate.

A few streets from my house is a church. The sign outside says “God forgives all-Numbers are warnings, not punishments”. The church three blocks away is telling me to ignore the list entirely, that it’s a construct of the devil made to deceive us and turn us away from God. And the synagogue on Bailey Cove promises a way to move your number up the list, and a better understanding of why you were ranked where you were in the first place.

My mom and I went to a church back in our hometown that told us we had to be honest with our numbers and share them with the world. The next church we tried told us the list was a gift from god, to tell us when to repent. My mom loved that answer, but I wasn’t sure. I stopped going to church as soon as I could, and mom’s death didn’t do anything to persuade me to return.

I’ve always wondered who’s at the top of the list. You’d think they’d be on the news all the time, sharing their five-step plan to being a good human being. But only one person has ever claimed to have 1 embedded in their skin. Anton Icara, famous actor, TV personality, and philanthropist. When the first rape allegations came, the woman who had submitted them had been completely ostracized. After all, this man was the pinnacle of human decency. No accusations could ever stand up to that little number on his hand.

Security cameras don’t see your number, though. All they saw was Anton’s fifteenth murder. The same woman who had tried to tell the world what he was really like lay dead on the floor, a knife in her chest.

I wonder sometimes if he really was the best person on earth. If our own view of morality fell apart somewhere along the way, and he wasn’t lying when he told us that he was the only person who understood what perfection was. It seems plausible. When I was a kid, I wondered why the Bible banned so many things that sounded perfectly moral to me. Maybe the list works the same way. Maybe that’s why giving to charity didn’t move my number up the list, but watering my houseplants did. Anton Icara might have been right.

Then again, if he was lying, why did we all believe him?

I don’t know why the number on my hand is there. I don’t know what it means, what it wants from me. I don’t know who decides our numbers. And I don’t know what will happen when I die.

All I know is when this bullet goes through my head, I won’t be looking at the number on my hand.

I remember what it was like hating on myself; looking in a mirror and feeling sad, sick, disgusted, ashamed, and even angry. I remember what the rest of the world looked like and felt like, when I didn't love myself.

I mean it, 100%, when I tell you that I love myself for the pleasure of it.

Knowing I have freewill in the truest cosmic sense means I know I have a choice of which way to feel about myself, which way to think about myself, so it wasn't a very hard choice to make.

The choice was much easier than the learning how to unlearn all the self-loathing tricks and tid-bits I'd learned from my parents, siblings, teachers, peers, and perfect strangers.. nevermind the News, TV shows, Movies... etc.

I love myself for having taken on that journey.

I love myself for taking the time to think about my thoughts and feelings.

I love myself for learning about the Law of One.

I love myself for doodling out my own understanding of the Law of One; Source.

I love myself for loving the knowing of the connectivity of everything.

I love myself for exploring and practicing self-love and appreciation.

I love myself for appreciating that every "mistake/wrong" is a learning experience.

I love myself for appreciating the diversity of life, culture, and peoples.

I love myself for appreciating my journy so far.

I love myself for appreciating contrasting people and situations as opportunities to refine who I am and will be in the future.

I love myself for maintaining the desire to help others, even while I figure myself out.

I love myself especially when being me means being a contrasting opportunity to grow for someone else.

I love myself for continuing to work on my book, through every lost-data set-back.

I love myself for embracing the lone path when it presents itself as the progressive path.

I love myself for loving others even when they don't openly/notably love me back.

I love myself for dreaming big, beyond 'impossible', and believing in my inevitble.

I love myself for being able to dip into other perspectives without loosing mine.

I love myself for feeling compelled to share of myself.

I love myself for being willing to explore my own emotional spectrum.

I love myself for learning through every struggle, conflict, and doubt.

I love myself for evolving past the need to blame, shame, and play secret games.

I love myself for learning how to focus my thoughts/emotions.

I love myself for having room to grow, learn, and love some more.

I love myself for loving myself.

I am so abundant with love, my awesome is infinite.

another_proser

We brought you home from the hospital wrapped in the soft, pink blankie your grandmother found among my old things. You were tiny, so tiny that your head fits into the palm of my hand, curls and all. Your fingers were so little and pink, as were your toes. I wanted to be overwhelmed by love when I held you.

Instead, I felt fear, crippling waves of doubt, that made me want to throw up and cry (and I did). You were so little, so incredibly helpless. And I was supposed to be your primary caregiver. Me. A twenty-three-year-old girl with a half-completed graduate degree and a husband, I was in the process of getting uncoupled from. I wasn’t ready for this, for you. I didn’t know how to do it. I mean, I could barely function without my pills and my weekly visits to the therapist.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help,” said your grandmother, one of those capable, cheery women who were always on top of everything.

“Will you hold her?”

I thrust you into her arms and stumbled out of the cab, yet again.

I threw up in front of the Chettiar house; the only house left standing on our street. Developers had colonized everything else: all those pretty houses with their airy courtyards and gardens filled with warbling birds and soft, fleshy garden lizards.

Instead, there were lines of flats named after various mythological places-- Dwaraka, El Dorado, Avalon—with smooth white walls, long glass windows and uniformed security guards.

Natesan, our security guard, refused to let the cab inside, at first. “Owners vehicles only,” he told the weedy, young man who had driven us there.

I had reached out for the door handle, was all ready to scramble out in my oversized cotton nightgown with its vomit stains and wet patches when your grandmother came to the rescue.

“I’ve been an owner here for thirty years,” she told Natesan. “Do you want me to call the building secretary to prove it?”

Natesan looked at her, at her eighty-five kilos wrapped in starched cotton and rightful indignation, at the string of pearls around her neck and the big red bindi on her forehead, at the iPhone she brandished in her hand and the baby(you) sleeping on my lap.

“One time only, madam,” he told her and waved the cab inside.

My girlhood still lay curled up in my bedroom, a fetid, furry beast that had nowhere else to go. I walked past shelves crammed with Blyton and Dahl, writers I had loved before realizing they wouldn’t have loved me back. (I was too brown for them). Past my collection of Barbie dolls with their unrealistic proportions, painted faces and plasticky high heels. Sepia-toned photographs, a Backstreet Boys poster and a calendar your father had given me the year we started dating.

I put you down on my bed, on a sheet printed with springs of flowers and the odd butterfly, and prayed that you wouldn’t fall off or pee.

“Wait,” said your grandmother, resourceful lady that she is.

She spread out a plastic sheet, placed two pillows on either side of it, and then set you in the centre.

You looked uncomfortable.

You started bawling.

“I think she’s hungry,” said your grandmother. “You need to feed her.”

I whipped open the buttons of my filthy nightie. My breasts—bigger than ever, with dense brown nipples-- were leaking; they had been for a while now.

I offered you a nipple.

Most people, I know, don’t hesitate to help themselves to nipples.

You turned away and continue bawling.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked your grandmother.

She said nothing. Instead, she guided your mouth to my nipple.

You clamped onto it.

It hurt.

Not bad, but it did.

“How long will I have to do this?” I asked your grandmother. “I don’t think I can take it.”

“You’ll learn to,” she told me.

I lay back on my girlhood bed and watched you feed off me.

Here I am.

Despite so many fears, after so many years I am

Throwing it all away.

Who are you all to say

What I don't and do all day?

You want me to slave away

For pay

While I pray

The void inside subsides until one day

It all eventually goes away?

Instead, it grew and it grew.

And I knew—I just knew,

That it would come down to this.

It's impossible to fix.

So that does it.

I quit.

I don't know where I'm headed,

But I know that the dread that's embedded

Deep

As soon as I awaken from sleep

On a Monday

Has been replaced without chains! I'm not waiting for Someday.

Someday will take your dreams to the grave.

Chin up. Be brave.

You've got this.

The whole world is your office.

Anything you want, just

Reach out and make it

And take it

And mold it

And grow it

And go with

The path as YOU chose it.

The bumps along the way

Trump months, or even years, of long decay.

Resolve to dissolve the gap in

Value and worth you feel wrapped in.

What's the worst that can happen?

Own the unknown over a dead-end job you feel trapped in.