"My dad's in prison," the boy said. It was going to be one of those years. I watched with fear in my eyes as the boy sitting next to me in my fifth grade class methodically sketched his daily car on the paper that was supposed to be used for homework. Every few minutes he would spout things off trying to look bad or impressive, and they usually led back to the fact that his dad was in prison. I shouldn't say fact, because for all we knew it was just a faked claim to fame for this guy, to make him seem scary. But my classmates and I were willing to accept it, because he was just that: scary. It was undeniable. This boy would be the end of us all, in one way or another. We all just thought it would be a bloody end, not the type of end we met.
One of the most important things to us as elementary schoolers was our economic currency. That is to say: the "Grabber". These small pieces of card-stock were what we lived for. They were the reward that drove us to be civil to each other on the playground, decent to our teachers in the classroom. Their very existence was the reason that we hadn't yet overthrown the principal in her unruly dictatorship. We had each saved up since the beginning of the year to have enough to get the big prizes, the loot, the treasure, at the end of the year grabber auction. They were what little power we had...
Gone. All because of one evil act, they were gone.
That car-drawing, prison-daddy's little boy had seized his ability to bring us all down in the lowest of all ways. Like I said, we had seen our demise coming, and had planned carefully. We had assembled an army so that had he launched a physical attack we would have been ready. But instead we watched as something more tragic took place. On the top shelf of a bookshelf in our teacher's classroom was the stash of un-rewarded Grabbers. At some point when all of us and the teacher were out of the room, the devil child had enacted a plan of his to climb to the top and steal the Grabbers for himself. He successfully mounted a precarious stack of textbooks, stole the packs, and hid them in his backpack. When everyone returned, nobody would have noticed the absence of the grabbers had it not been for his careless failure to remove the stack of books he had used for a ladder.
The teacher was furious when he found out what had happened. "Where are the Grabbers?" he demanded, distributing the worst of all death glares. The culprit, obviously as good at getting caught as his dad was, hid his face in his hands. The teacher walked over to the boy's backpack, opened it, and pulled out the missing currency.
We were horrified as we realized what had happened. This boy's act of stealing these Grabbers had invalidated all the Grabbers we had previously earned. For all the teacher knew, he had already distributed some of the stolen goods to the rest of us. It was only fair...horrifyingly fair...
"As punishment, Grabbers will not be accepted for the rest of the year."
Forlorn and broken, we marched out to recess that afternoon and conducted a burial service. We dug a hole big enough to bury our big dreams. We carefully tossed in the carefully earned Grabbers. We closed up the ditch as the worst day in childhood history came to a close.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
If Heaven Could Be Served on a Plate (Prompt #14)
What I love about restaurants is that with every different one you walk into you are overwhelmed with a new culture. It just so happens that my favorite food is served in one of my favorite cultural settings. Moki's Hawaiian Grill combines every color and splash of Hawaii with all of my taste buds' favorite flavors. You walk in and are instantly greeted with shouts of "Aloha!" from the workers in the kitchen. When I shout "Aloha!" back, am not only returning the welcome, but also greeting the exciting aroma and soon to be amazing tastes.
The Dinner Menu
Teriyaki Beef
Teriyaki Chicken
Pulled Pork
Ribs
Tossed Salad
Macaroni Salad
Garden Salad
There are plenty of other options, but these are in my opinion the best, and seem to show the wide variety of options that you are presented with. Of course, if you aren't a meat lover, there is always the other side of the menu, but I've never paid much attention to that. Each plate is supplied with the sticky white rice, the kind you begin eating with chopsticks at the start of the night, and finish off with a fork at the impatient end. I had never realized that the Hawaiian culture engaged in the ancient art of chopstick torture...
If this food is a reflection on Hawaii, I must say this culture has to be one of my favorites. Just like the variety of island designs painted on the walls and hung in the windows, the variety in one dinner plate is endless. Having accumulated one salad, one main dish, and rice, every bite is packed with sweet, tangy, or tart flavor. Can it get better?
The Desert Menu
Pineapple Ice Cream
Coconut Ice Cream
Giri Giri
Grandma's Cake
The island theme even carried into the ice cream screams joy to the customer's appetite. And while these first two ice creams are good, the Giri Giri (whatever it is) is my favorite of the ice creams by far! Despite the fact that pink is usually my deterring color, this valentine colored treat is a perfect balance between fruity and sweet. The only downfall is that it fills you up fast, so the enjoyment is limited! And if I'm craving chocolate, as is usually the case, there is always Grandma's cake to turn to. How do you improve on a cake that is already on the brink of being the richest chocolate sensation in the world? You drizzle it with a light topping of carmel and add a pinch of toffee. We must conclude that Hawaiian culture has managed to capture heaven in the form of food!
The Dinner Menu
Teriyaki Beef
Teriyaki Chicken
Pulled Pork
Ribs
Tossed Salad
Macaroni Salad
Garden Salad
There are plenty of other options, but these are in my opinion the best, and seem to show the wide variety of options that you are presented with. Of course, if you aren't a meat lover, there is always the other side of the menu, but I've never paid much attention to that. Each plate is supplied with the sticky white rice, the kind you begin eating with chopsticks at the start of the night, and finish off with a fork at the impatient end. I had never realized that the Hawaiian culture engaged in the ancient art of chopstick torture...
If this food is a reflection on Hawaii, I must say this culture has to be one of my favorites. Just like the variety of island designs painted on the walls and hung in the windows, the variety in one dinner plate is endless. Having accumulated one salad, one main dish, and rice, every bite is packed with sweet, tangy, or tart flavor. Can it get better?
The Desert Menu
Pineapple Ice Cream
Coconut Ice Cream
Giri Giri
Grandma's Cake
The island theme even carried into the ice cream screams joy to the customer's appetite. And while these first two ice creams are good, the Giri Giri (whatever it is) is my favorite of the ice creams by far! Despite the fact that pink is usually my deterring color, this valentine colored treat is a perfect balance between fruity and sweet. The only downfall is that it fills you up fast, so the enjoyment is limited! And if I'm craving chocolate, as is usually the case, there is always Grandma's cake to turn to. How do you improve on a cake that is already on the brink of being the richest chocolate sensation in the world? You drizzle it with a light topping of carmel and add a pinch of toffee. We must conclude that Hawaiian culture has managed to capture heaven in the form of food!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Rush Hour (Prompt #13)
Miles of curvy road lay ahead, each of us in our separate cars but sharing a common goal: to get off the freeway. Slowly but surely we are all beginning to regret not taking the sides streets to get home. Now there's no way out but forward, a direction that nobody is moving as traffic comes to a stop. This is not a healthy way to end a stressful day.
"I'll die of old age on this freeway," I mutter to myself. "It's comforting to know that I'll leave this world to a serenade of honking horns and yelling." What I find funny is that every day around 5:00 pm the freeway begins to pack itself with cars whose drivers want nothing but to be home in the quiet of their living room. And every day those who have been attracted by the freeway's absence of stop lights and presence of luxurious speed limit signs of "65 mph" find that they have been lied to. Tricked by false pretenses of speed. Yet every day around 5:00 pm we all voluntarily choose the freeway. Insanity is said to be "trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." We are like little robot drivers, void of agency, bowing to the will of the freeway. Insanity our only defining quality.
Maybe it is the social scene that drives us to the freeway. We as robot drivers cannot resist this chance to meet new people. I know I sure get to know the people next to me when I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The situation forces you to. For example: today I'm finding out that the youth in the car to my left, poor soul, is deaf. Or at least mostly deaf. Or at least, that is what I assume from the inhumane volume of his music. I can't be angry that all I will hear until my untimely death on this stretch of road is a reverberating bass from some song I never wanted to hear. I certainly won't blame him for adding to my headache, because it must be horrible for him to be so deaf. I should count my blessings.
I don't pity the man to my right, for he is obviously content with life. He is either rehearsing for a play in which he plays a character such as a wicked stepfather or a murderous lunatic, or he is learning to dance. As foreign as it may seem to me to rehearse either of these activities in a car, I figure: what the heck. If he wants to flail his arms around and project his lines to other drivers during rush hour, to each his own.
I have nothing useful to do to pass the time I have left on this perpetual journey home, so I'll inch forward quietly and continue to meet new people, as I probably will again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...
"I'll die of old age on this freeway," I mutter to myself. "It's comforting to know that I'll leave this world to a serenade of honking horns and yelling." What I find funny is that every day around 5:00 pm the freeway begins to pack itself with cars whose drivers want nothing but to be home in the quiet of their living room. And every day those who have been attracted by the freeway's absence of stop lights and presence of luxurious speed limit signs of "65 mph" find that they have been lied to. Tricked by false pretenses of speed. Yet every day around 5:00 pm we all voluntarily choose the freeway. Insanity is said to be "trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." We are like little robot drivers, void of agency, bowing to the will of the freeway. Insanity our only defining quality.
Maybe it is the social scene that drives us to the freeway. We as robot drivers cannot resist this chance to meet new people. I know I sure get to know the people next to me when I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The situation forces you to. For example: today I'm finding out that the youth in the car to my left, poor soul, is deaf. Or at least mostly deaf. Or at least, that is what I assume from the inhumane volume of his music. I can't be angry that all I will hear until my untimely death on this stretch of road is a reverberating bass from some song I never wanted to hear. I certainly won't blame him for adding to my headache, because it must be horrible for him to be so deaf. I should count my blessings.
I don't pity the man to my right, for he is obviously content with life. He is either rehearsing for a play in which he plays a character such as a wicked stepfather or a murderous lunatic, or he is learning to dance. As foreign as it may seem to me to rehearse either of these activities in a car, I figure: what the heck. If he wants to flail his arms around and project his lines to other drivers during rush hour, to each his own.
I have nothing useful to do to pass the time I have left on this perpetual journey home, so I'll inch forward quietly and continue to meet new people, as I probably will again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Less Than Forever Away (Prompt #11)
Forever Away
My friend and I are in the middle of a race to see who can get to Seattle, Washington first. She says she'll win, but I beg to differ. I don't know what her reasons are for wanting to go there so badly, but I sure know mine. This is not a dream that I will sacrifice, even though it seems to be forever away.
The Chick Flick Scene
Not my most prominent reason for wanting to go, but a reason nonetheless, can be traced back to many chick flicks. I've watched several perfect couples fall in love in Seattle, and I always imagined myself testing this out for myself. Let's take "Sleepless In Seattle" for example. This is a great movie with an equally great plot, and how does it end? Happily ever after, naturally. And all in Seattle. As flawed as my logic may be, I've always dreamed that my happily ever after exists in my imaginary Seattle, if only I could get there to claim it. With my limited 18-year-old's funds, any destination, even this one, seems forever away.
Rain, Rain, Go Away?
I am constantly annoyed by song artists' tendencies to relate bad experiences with "rainy days." If something goes wrong it may be "a rainy ending to a perfect day," as Taylor Swift says. As a child, one of the most appalling things I ever heard was the children's song that goes "Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day." Never in my life have I seen any reason to wish away one of the most beautiful things in the world. A good rain storm is healthy for the body and soul. It contains in its simplicity the power to serenade the ears, please the nose, mesmerize the eyes, captivate the mind, even freshen the air we breathe. While most claim to become depressed when the sun never shines, I would be more content if I never saw its blinding, headache inducing rays again and could forever live under a blanket of silver-lined clouds. Here in Arizona, just a few states south of my ideal destination, I am so close, but still forever away.
Sunburned Artist
Let me expound a bit on what I mean by giving the power of "captivating the mind" to this inanimate, seemingly insignificant natural event. Even most of those who are depressed by rainy days can admit that they find some amount of peace in the occasional drizzle of rain. I could watch it for hours. As it washes the dirt out of the sky it seems to purge every problem from my brain, drawing my full attention into a new world behind each rain drop. I don't claim to know how the simple patter of the tiny drops and the occasional crash of thunder somehow manage to open such worlds, all I know is that it happens. Creativity is alive in these hidden worlds, alive and flowing like the rivers of water that flood down the rain gutters. I can hardly imagine the types of thoughtful and powerful lyrics I could dream up if this setting of tranquil creativity was open to me so frequently as it is to those in Seattle where rain is no stranger. Here, in this place--in a gazebo in a remote field somewhere in Seattle--I would be able to arrange words naturally, as clearly as placing my actual soul on the paper. For the stories I write, I could supply them with deeper characters than ever before, if only I had the focus available to me that this quiet water from heaven would allow. Stuck here, in my sunburned state, I just keep telling myself that this dream is less than forever away.
My friend and I are in the middle of a race to see who can get to Seattle, Washington first. She says she'll win, but I beg to differ. I don't know what her reasons are for wanting to go there so badly, but I sure know mine. This is not a dream that I will sacrifice, even though it seems to be forever away.
The Chick Flick Scene
Not my most prominent reason for wanting to go, but a reason nonetheless, can be traced back to many chick flicks. I've watched several perfect couples fall in love in Seattle, and I always imagined myself testing this out for myself. Let's take "Sleepless In Seattle" for example. This is a great movie with an equally great plot, and how does it end? Happily ever after, naturally. And all in Seattle. As flawed as my logic may be, I've always dreamed that my happily ever after exists in my imaginary Seattle, if only I could get there to claim it. With my limited 18-year-old's funds, any destination, even this one, seems forever away.
Rain, Rain, Go Away?
I am constantly annoyed by song artists' tendencies to relate bad experiences with "rainy days." If something goes wrong it may be "a rainy ending to a perfect day," as Taylor Swift says. As a child, one of the most appalling things I ever heard was the children's song that goes "Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day." Never in my life have I seen any reason to wish away one of the most beautiful things in the world. A good rain storm is healthy for the body and soul. It contains in its simplicity the power to serenade the ears, please the nose, mesmerize the eyes, captivate the mind, even freshen the air we breathe. While most claim to become depressed when the sun never shines, I would be more content if I never saw its blinding, headache inducing rays again and could forever live under a blanket of silver-lined clouds. Here in Arizona, just a few states south of my ideal destination, I am so close, but still forever away.
Sunburned Artist
Let me expound a bit on what I mean by giving the power of "captivating the mind" to this inanimate, seemingly insignificant natural event. Even most of those who are depressed by rainy days can admit that they find some amount of peace in the occasional drizzle of rain. I could watch it for hours. As it washes the dirt out of the sky it seems to purge every problem from my brain, drawing my full attention into a new world behind each rain drop. I don't claim to know how the simple patter of the tiny drops and the occasional crash of thunder somehow manage to open such worlds, all I know is that it happens. Creativity is alive in these hidden worlds, alive and flowing like the rivers of water that flood down the rain gutters. I can hardly imagine the types of thoughtful and powerful lyrics I could dream up if this setting of tranquil creativity was open to me so frequently as it is to those in Seattle where rain is no stranger. Here, in this place--in a gazebo in a remote field somewhere in Seattle--I would be able to arrange words naturally, as clearly as placing my actual soul on the paper. For the stories I write, I could supply them with deeper characters than ever before, if only I had the focus available to me that this quiet water from heaven would allow. Stuck here, in my sunburned state, I just keep telling myself that this dream is less than forever away.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
"Brand New Day" by Ryan Star (Prompt #8)
"I stayed in one place for too long,
Gotta get on the run again."
Swinging like a pendulum wears on a person after days of going from tears, to smiles. Tears. Smiles. Tears. Smiles. Monotonous trends are hard to break. How do you motivate yourself to change something so drastically in order to break cycles caused by the same relationships, the same daily routines, the same habits? I may not have, except that I wasn't the one doing the changing. All in an instant every relationship I had was broken or strained, daily routines were shattered, and habits were broken. Interestingly enough, I found that you don't notice how annoying the droning of a swinging pendulum is until it stops and the ensuing silence is beautiful.
"Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time.
I need to break out, and make a new name."
When this change occurred, just as the new year rung itself in, I found myself temporarily lost without my previous grandfather-clock shell of a life. Knowing I was on the verge of a complete personality change, I was excited to get started on making a new name for myself. The main explosion that had caused this change had been a particularly bad break up, so I settled on the tag "friend" and began.
"I'm throwing rocks at your window
We're leaving this place together.
They say that we're flying too high
Get used to looking up."
I quickly made friends with a million different people, one of which was constantly waiting for the next adventure. Tonight's agenda: flying paper airplanes off of something tall, and he needed someone to help him. I needed someone to help me learn how to enjoy the simple things in life. Logically, we were happy to trade favors.
Off we went to our chosen jungle gym of great heights: the Mesa Arts Center, which was littered with endless stairwells, tall buildings, and adventurous balconies. We had twelve of our most carefully crafted flight machines and began testing their skills from the top of a two-story staircase.
"We'll call this one, 'The Experiment'. I've been developing it for six years. The success of this flight now lies in your hands." It plummeted to the ground. Experiment failed. He blamed me, I blamed him. The real world had left, only leaving behind the world in which paper airplane crashes were detrimental to human existence. This was good enough for us! In fact, we were thrilled. Pilots and controllers of everything, if only for a few hours. We made them count.
"They say that we're dreaming too big
I say this town's too small."
The name "Toucan Sam" was given to our most successful airplane. It flew in perfect loops around a tree that looked like a construction cone when you stood on your head fifty feet away and crossed your eyes. It flew like this every time until its tragic crash in the Nile River (manmade decorative stream) which instantly dampened its ability to fly. We cleaned up the airplanes, making sure we had all of them by using base-8 number systems to count to twelve....Obviously we had created a topsy turvy world. It seems crazy. It seems insane even. Admittedly, it was insane. But we held almost reverently the twelve pieces of paper in our frozen hands as we walked away in the dark, conquerers of the monotonous world.
"Let's open our eyes to the brand new day."
Gotta get on the run again."
Swinging like a pendulum wears on a person after days of going from tears, to smiles. Tears. Smiles. Tears. Smiles. Monotonous trends are hard to break. How do you motivate yourself to change something so drastically in order to break cycles caused by the same relationships, the same daily routines, the same habits? I may not have, except that I wasn't the one doing the changing. All in an instant every relationship I had was broken or strained, daily routines were shattered, and habits were broken. Interestingly enough, I found that you don't notice how annoying the droning of a swinging pendulum is until it stops and the ensuing silence is beautiful.
"Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time.
I need to break out, and make a new name."
When this change occurred, just as the new year rung itself in, I found myself temporarily lost without my previous grandfather-clock shell of a life. Knowing I was on the verge of a complete personality change, I was excited to get started on making a new name for myself. The main explosion that had caused this change had been a particularly bad break up, so I settled on the tag "friend" and began.
"I'm throwing rocks at your window
We're leaving this place together.
They say that we're flying too high
Get used to looking up."
I quickly made friends with a million different people, one of which was constantly waiting for the next adventure. Tonight's agenda: flying paper airplanes off of something tall, and he needed someone to help him. I needed someone to help me learn how to enjoy the simple things in life. Logically, we were happy to trade favors.
Off we went to our chosen jungle gym of great heights: the Mesa Arts Center, which was littered with endless stairwells, tall buildings, and adventurous balconies. We had twelve of our most carefully crafted flight machines and began testing their skills from the top of a two-story staircase.
"We'll call this one, 'The Experiment'. I've been developing it for six years. The success of this flight now lies in your hands." It plummeted to the ground. Experiment failed. He blamed me, I blamed him. The real world had left, only leaving behind the world in which paper airplane crashes were detrimental to human existence. This was good enough for us! In fact, we were thrilled. Pilots and controllers of everything, if only for a few hours. We made them count.
"They say that we're dreaming too big
I say this town's too small."
The name "Toucan Sam" was given to our most successful airplane. It flew in perfect loops around a tree that looked like a construction cone when you stood on your head fifty feet away and crossed your eyes. It flew like this every time until its tragic crash in the Nile River (manmade decorative stream) which instantly dampened its ability to fly. We cleaned up the airplanes, making sure we had all of them by using base-8 number systems to count to twelve....Obviously we had created a topsy turvy world. It seems crazy. It seems insane even. Admittedly, it was insane. But we held almost reverently the twelve pieces of paper in our frozen hands as we walked away in the dark, conquerers of the monotonous world.
"Let's open our eyes to the brand new day."
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Zodiac Panic Attack (Prompt #9)
(A satyrical approach to the news of the changing of the zodiac signs.)
Curse the radio for ruining my life! All I was doing was listening to the news on the way to school when they started a commentary on the change in the zodiac signs. Pardon me...what? They changed the zodiac signs? Surely this had to be a joke. But as I listened further I realized, to my horror, that this was the real deal. They really were deviating from what the stars tell us after all this time.
Soon enough I heard the full story. "They" (whoever it was that determined astrological things) weren't actually disregarding the stars. They were in fact realizing that somehow the moon's gravitational pull had messed with the stars' alignment with the earth and now we were off by about a month. As a natural result, everyone's signs were changing. I couldn't decide if I was thankful that they had caught the change, or if I was upset that I wasn't going to be a Pisces anymore. On the one hand, what if I had been living my life according to the Pisces horoscope until I died, not realizing that the whole reason I was failing at everything was because I was relying on false advice, while in fact I was an Aries? On the other hand, how does one change loyalties from one sign to another? This was all too much. I turned up the radio to drown out my own confusion.
"Yes...Joshua from Tennessee. You are on the air."
"WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?"
"I'm gathering you are upset about the change?"
"YES! I just got my zodiac sign tattooed on my arm a week ago. Now they are telling me that the signs are changing? What am I supposed to do?!"
I shook my head. How tragic for that poor man. I would be upset too! His tattoo was the very embodiment of how permanent and reliable we all thought the signs were!
"Melanie, from Florida. Talk to us."
"Hi, yes, I was shocked by the change at first. But I'd like to say to all those out there who are complaining about the change, that it will be for the better! This is how I know. My whole life I felt like an alien trapped in my own body. I would wake up in the morning with barely any motivation at all because I didn't ever know who I was. Every once in a while I would read my horoscope when I couldn't find any guidance through anything else and I would just feel even more disconnected and confused about my identity and purpose. Now, with this new change, I read my horoscope and felt alive! It exactly described me and for the first time ever I know who I am! Thanks to this change, I can finally live my life to the fullest!"
I was stopped at a red light when she finished her monologue, but it felt I was at a major mental crossroad in my life. Could this change make my life better? But what of loyalty? What of all the pathways I had chosen simply because my horoscope told me to? If I started following another horoscope now, would I somehow work myself in a pitiful circle of misconstrued decisions? I thought for a moment before avidly proclaiming to myself: "I have been, and forever will be, a Pisces!"
Curse the radio for ruining my life! All I was doing was listening to the news on the way to school when they started a commentary on the change in the zodiac signs. Pardon me...what? They changed the zodiac signs? Surely this had to be a joke. But as I listened further I realized, to my horror, that this was the real deal. They really were deviating from what the stars tell us after all this time.
Soon enough I heard the full story. "They" (whoever it was that determined astrological things) weren't actually disregarding the stars. They were in fact realizing that somehow the moon's gravitational pull had messed with the stars' alignment with the earth and now we were off by about a month. As a natural result, everyone's signs were changing. I couldn't decide if I was thankful that they had caught the change, or if I was upset that I wasn't going to be a Pisces anymore. On the one hand, what if I had been living my life according to the Pisces horoscope until I died, not realizing that the whole reason I was failing at everything was because I was relying on false advice, while in fact I was an Aries? On the other hand, how does one change loyalties from one sign to another? This was all too much. I turned up the radio to drown out my own confusion.
"Yes...Joshua from Tennessee. You are on the air."
"WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?"
"I'm gathering you are upset about the change?"
"YES! I just got my zodiac sign tattooed on my arm a week ago. Now they are telling me that the signs are changing? What am I supposed to do?!"
I shook my head. How tragic for that poor man. I would be upset too! His tattoo was the very embodiment of how permanent and reliable we all thought the signs were!
"Melanie, from Florida. Talk to us."
"Hi, yes, I was shocked by the change at first. But I'd like to say to all those out there who are complaining about the change, that it will be for the better! This is how I know. My whole life I felt like an alien trapped in my own body. I would wake up in the morning with barely any motivation at all because I didn't ever know who I was. Every once in a while I would read my horoscope when I couldn't find any guidance through anything else and I would just feel even more disconnected and confused about my identity and purpose. Now, with this new change, I read my horoscope and felt alive! It exactly described me and for the first time ever I know who I am! Thanks to this change, I can finally live my life to the fullest!"
I was stopped at a red light when she finished her monologue, but it felt I was at a major mental crossroad in my life. Could this change make my life better? But what of loyalty? What of all the pathways I had chosen simply because my horoscope told me to? If I started following another horoscope now, would I somehow work myself in a pitiful circle of misconstrued decisions? I thought for a moment before avidly proclaiming to myself: "I have been, and forever will be, a Pisces!"
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