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Writing, to me, had always been this mystical power - a magical force that would evolve and express itself through me by an inborn genetic code that made me special, and I would one day be whisked away to a place of creativity, fulfillment, fame.

And so I climbed the stage for the magic show of life, my wand a pen and paper. I readied myself to channel the great creative destiny that was mine - for the joy of the masses - and the satisfaction of my own pathetic dreams. As the curtains raised on adulthood, I smiled, having no doubts, opened my mouth to read the message I had so brilliantly translated from the universe to the world, but no sound came.

The silence wore on and the stage lights bore hot sweaty holes into my scalp. The audience began shifting in their seats. Chuckles rippled through. Still, I had nothing.

Looking through the impatient seats, I saw actors awaiting their lines, musicians lacking lyrics, dreamers longing for fairy tales. I threw myself to the floor, attacked the paper with my pen, willing myself to create, to be worthwhile. But I could not. I was empty.

I am empty.

I suppose it's time for me to step down, and leave the stage for the true storytellers of the world. I just want to sit and rest my legs. Hoping to become something in the face of nothing is exhausting business.

Sometimes dreams don't come true and faith falters, even fails.

But that's ok. I'll just sit here in the audience for a while.

who am i?

I am a name.

Angela Andrea Rey. My father's name in feminine form. My father the pedophile. My father the tyrant. My father the prophet. My father the healer, the comforter, the shelterer, the solver and understander-of-all-problems. My father the prisoner.

I am my father, the bearer of his wisdom and shame.

But my mother gave me this name.

My mother the provider, giver of sustenance, education, discipline, compassion, religion. The saint. My mother made every decision in life based on the rigid proscriptions imposed on her as a child and received more trials than triumphs as reward for her good deeds. My mother who never complained, who cried in secret, who blamed and despised her own few flaws.

I am my mother, voice to her silent sufferings.

And my name, one small shard of light split by the prism of who i am, has changed.

I am a changed name, Angela Rey Hoffman. Daniel Hoffman's ex wife. Ex. Wife.

I loved his family like my own, and now it's like some invisible force has swallowed them up, no goodbyes no memorials. Because they're still here, still alive. Just not my family any more. And this reality has been difficult for me to accept with my warped damaged little heart.

So, I am a changed name that doesn't want to change back.

I am a homeowner facing foreclosure. I am a writer who never writes.

I am fucked.

The worst part is that I am capable of much more. Who managed my father's lawyers, property, family, wife, police, church, everything when the shit hit the fan and no one else could say the phrase "child offender"? Who stood between her suicidal, mentally fucked father and the world when she was only 21? And held down 2 jobs. And finished her undergrad. And wrote for a newspaper. And never slept.

Who worked her ass off to make sure her husband could focus on pilot training? Who drove to Tampa and lived out of her car for a month to find a job and a place to live so her husband wouldn't have to stress? When her husband left her, who still came by to pick his lecherous ass out of his own vomit, clean him up, put him to bed, then drove back to the place she was renting?

I did. I'm fucking strong. I am capable. I have had shit thrown at me all my life and I've made fucking apple pie out of it. This isn't over. This sucks, and I'm scared. More scared than I've been before. But I'll make it.

Who am I?

I am G-d. Or the closest reflection of her I'll ever know. And I'm going to be fucking peachy.

Know Thyself

Know yourself has become a sort of answer-for-everything-where-none-exists.

What do you want?

To be happy.

But what does that look like?

If I knew that, I wouldn't be here.

Who are you?

Now what the fuck kind of a question is that?

I am convinced that therapy is merely a professionalized method for confusing people enough so that they forget what their problem was in the first place.

change is scary

day two of my last week at work. looking into the gaping maw of poverty again. this time with no reserve cash. just maxed out credit cards and the hope that my student loan applications will be approved.

i feel like a quiet more humble version of myself. perhaps with a diminished capacity for chaos management as well.

we'll see how this turns out.

it's go-go, not cry-cry

enough whining. i've been busy today. i applied for student loans and enrolled in classes. bought some furniture on craigs list so i'm not living in the empty shell of my former life. and i've picked out the paint for my living room. getting out of tampa will take some time, and i need to stop being miserable and pathetic in the interim. i have too many good things going for me, and i'm missing out on them.

hell. maybe i'll even start exercising again. who knows? it's a mad mad world.

perpetually dissatisfied

i woke up the in the ER the other day and thought to myself, why the hell am i still in florida? and the thought stuck with me through discharge, drive home, pharmacy drop off and pick up, and every day since. why the hell am i still in florida?

i have a house and mortgage payment. i can rent the house out. i'm an assistant editor for a trade mag - nice title, nice pay but i'm not happy.

so what the fuck am i doing here? i hate it here. there's nothing for me. i'm going to take my little husky and move to NYC. seriously. I think by the end of this year.

i hear crackwhore pays well these days.

a good friend once told me...

you know there are perfectly good burn victims who could use that skin you're wasting.

...and that's the rub.

There is a formula to good news writing. Any informative piece has it. You sock it to 'em right off the bat. In the first paragraph, first sentence. The who-what-when-where and why-the-hell-should-I-care. Then you break it down. You hold their hand and walk them through, pointing out interesting things along the way. Finally, you summarize, because most readers don't really pay attention, and reviewing the highlights at the end ensures them good cocktail party speak.

Throwing random bits of information into the air then letting them land on a piece of paper is not writing.

Please understand, I'm not judging your inability to grasp the execution of these simple mechanics. Write in whatever sloppy way you like, but don't butcher work that has my name on it in your attempt to feign editor.
3 p.m. is my favorite time of day. 3 o'clock is the time of day that i can tell myself the work day is almost over. just 2 more hours until you can make your way to the car. the duration of a shitty summer movie is all that blocks you from the door. once passed, you can enjoy your liesurely 2 hour drive home. a few minutes from now, i'll already be planning my escape. the bulk of my work is done in these final 2 hours at the office, i work furiously in an effort to make time pass more quickly. fucking time. always slowing me down.
i've had some serious health problems recently. most notably, last week. it all began the week before, but that's not the point. the point is, i want to quit my new fabulous job. shit went down and i'm very uncomfortable right now. i feel like i have to say something about it, and although i intend to be as proper and professional as possible, i imagine that the discussion will end in my dismissal. it's a terrible shame. i really like this job, but i don't like being manipulated.

i suppose there's a chance that all of this is just in my fucked up little head.


- A