Fantasy Island

You should see Warlike’s house. I feel like the director is going to out from behind a pillar and shout “cut” at any moment. Marble and mahogany everything. The style is fairly simple, just rich in texture. Handrails and arches are dark, anything wood really, is a simple bevel and fully functional, but the rich color is highly polished giving it a mesmerizing depth. The floors are all composed of tile imported from Italy. The fully loaded home theater with twenty leather recliners is a shocking sight to behold. With a full staff to maintain the house at all times every room is in order at all times, there is nothing out of place except for me.

This is my first idea that something is wrong. It seems to me that if this environment was something I was accustomed to I would not be in awe. It just feels weird having maids make my bed and people serve my food. I don’t really like the extra activity of them moving around me, as I do nothing.

My room supposedly is unchanged. There’s a mahogany vanity. It has the expected female amenities, namely aromatic lotions and body sprays in an array of colors. There is some make-up but nothing overwhelming. CD cases are piled in leaning towers on one side of the mirror and continue on to the floor. Most of the CD’s themselves are in similar piles on top of the cases. I want to see photos taped around the mirror but there aren’t. There are no photos of any kind. There should be, I think. But then again the nature of the organization is not given to photographic evidence.

Clothes are in neat piles in the chair next to the walk-in closet. I suspect they are folded by the same person who makes my bed, which happens to be covered in a purple zebra stripe pattern, so maybe the punk band thing is not that far off. It’s still out of place with the brocade curtains that belong to a couch downstairs, but at least there is some hint or falsified attempt at my supposed self expression.

There are no books or magazines so I must not be a reader. Half the clothes that have been left out are workout clothes, so I must be active. Learning about yourself from yourself is like landing in another country you know nothing about. Everything is an enigma and a mystery. You are curious about everything but you have no context to interpret what you are seeing.

Something in me wants to take what I can conclude about myself and act contrary to it. If can surprise Warlike and Gentle Lamb with this new Peaceful they will slip up. The façade will crack and I will be able to see things as they really are and not as the have engineered them to appear. I just have an inexplicable desire to piss them off. Maybe that is how this all happened in the first place. My being difficult, yet indispensable, forces them to drastic measures.

Is my amnesia really a side effect or a consequence?

Time will tell. Despite my discomfort there it beats this windowless hellhole they’ve brought me to. I know one thing for sure and that is that I miss the sun and a sense of day and night. It may be an intentional tactic to break me down, or maybe training so I’m not even reliant on the elements, irregardless, it sucks.

Meet the Parents

On MySpace they ask, “Who Would You Like to Meet?” My parents. I’m going to call them Ron & Judy. For some reason I imagine them to be an older couple, almost like grandparents, or maybe aunt and uncle like Peter Parker or Luke Skywalker. Ron…er… Dad has owned a hardware store for the last twenty years. He has five hardware stores in the same town. Everyone goes to him for their D.I.Y. projects. And he's on the city council. After school I work there a few hours a week to learn responsibility. Judy…mom…ugh, let’s go back to Judy later. I don’t know what she does. I want to say she bakes all day but that is so utopian.

I'm going to say that we live in Suburbia where all the houses coordinate and I'm the center of their lives in the role as the perfect, college bound daughter they always wanted. I'm going to be blonde in this version to determine if it's true about them having more fun. I'm the captain of the division championship girls soccer team and my boyfriend…he's junior class president. I'm in a band, "The Screaming Eels", we do angry girl punk rock. I do this because I want to be known for more than my amazing soccer skills. Can't box me in, I like to keep them guessing. You know the almighty them. Those people you believe are watching you, judging you, saying things about you. You're like them, only nicer.


We live in upper middle class bliss in sunny California because it's always sunny there. Bad things happen in L.A. so we only go there for Disneyland. It feels like I should have a dog, but I don't. No pets ever and I like it that way. I guess I'm not an animal person.
My best friend, her name is Sydney, like the city, it's where her parents got engaged. She's from Japan, her parents moved here when she was 2 so they could pursue the American Dream. Her dad's has to spend the week in Silicon Valley to keep the dream alive so she only gets to see him 48 hours a week. She sneaks out of the house late at night to escape the forced family time only to appear at my window and we stay up until 3am chatting online and being outrageous flirts. She's the drummer in the band, I'm lead guitar. We are looking for a lead vocalist...