The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.
-Ursula Le Guin

Things to Break a Heart.

I work in a domestic violence shelter here for women. There is one young girl staying who has been here about seven months now. She is fourteen and she came pregnant and with only one eye. Last month she gave birth to a little preemie girl, Mindy Jimena. I bought Mindy Jimena a little red woolen traje, with the cutest little cap the day after she was born. I walked in La Democracia and haggled and haggled and told the baby clothes booth all about little Mindy Jimena and the baby clothes lady cried a little, and added red booties for free. I thought, Mindy Jimena, there are people who love you.

Today Mindy Jimena died, and I want to throw red, rotten tomatoes at the whole ugly world.

Her little hands. I loved her little hands. I let them curl around my big fingers and kissed the little tips. I´m so angry and sad.

It is soon Mindy Jimena´s mother´s quinceanaro. What do you do for a quinceanaro when everything is so ugly? Does a cake with chocolate curls and cherries mean one damn thing?

E & J.B. Young Co.

I've only found one picture of a similar book. Here: http://sdrc.lib.uiowa.edu/lucile/publishers/young/YOUNG.HTM

Here's your evidence. Now you can pretend that I never existed.

My philosophy teacher is a moron.

So I'm hashing out what I need from him. I need the credits. I'm not learning anything from him. I'm paying for the credits. I don't care about the grades, I hypothetically have enough high-profile recommendations to scooch myself into a mediocre graduate school position.

So let's face it. I'm going to spend as little time interacting with my teacher as possible. I am not going to ream him out for philosophizing about whether or not women are lying when they say they've been raped. I'm going to take my Xanax, read the material with my middle finger perpetually wagging, and write unflinchingly boring papers while soundly cussing him out the entire time.

My hope is that I'll spend less than ten hours to finish the course. That should get me a C.

I've had a very frustrating last few days. What I do when I'm frustrated is zone out. Right now it is my video game which allows me to do that.

But then I ignore everything else, which is problematic. Especially when I'm in school. I was a week and a half ahead so I could concentrate on Guatemala when I got there, so I'm still going strong. I'll be okay. But I'm back on the hamster track.

I've done alot of thinking about where I want to go with my writing. Watching friends of mine go through hard times when their works become famous, and knowing how personal and psychological my writing is, I don't really want to put it out there anymore. At least not in my name.

I don't want people to know who I am. I want to hide. I guess some creative work which plushes out my resume in applying for work or graduate school would be nice, but the stuff that really belongs to me, I want it to stay that way.

You may also have noticed that I've stopped writing so much about sex abuse in the SDA church. Aside from wanting to blow my brains out every time I think about it or talk about it, I want to be known as me. Just me. Or even not known. Anonymity is precious. I could certainly handle pulling my blinds and becoming a hermit in Montana. Like the una-bomber, eh? (except, without the killing/hurting people part.)

Regardless, I'll keep talking about it. The church won't get to put me under the carpet. I'm still here. I'll be here for as long as there is an issue of church irresponsibility, cover ups and treating victims badly.

“Humiliate people for long enough and a wilderness bursts out of them.”


-Salman Rushdie