Earlier this morning, I met a woman at my bus stop. In all the ages I’ve ridden the Metro to work, I’ve never seen her waiting there before. I sat down beside her on the bench and introduced myself. She made no reply, nor did she turn to even look at me. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that she was terribly upset over something—intermittent tears trickled down her flushed red cheeks, and her thin hands were clenched to her thighs like bone-white vices.

Slightly embarrassed for her, I turned my head away and waited in silence until my bus arrived. There were others waiting at the stop—all standing at attention as the monstrous mobile monolith squealed to a halt directly in front of us. As I strapped my bag onto my shoulder and got up to leave, she quickly grabbed my arm and whispered, “Please… wait.”

“I’m going to miss my bus,” I said in mock urgency. (I was actually quite intrigued with the thought of deviating from my monotonous morning routine to assist this young lady.)

“Please… they’re almost gone,” she said—again, without looking at me. The last of our fellow commuters entered the bus, and after a slight pause and an unreturned glance from the bus driver, the bus doors closed with conjoining thuds, and the Metro bus rolled on, leaving the two of us alone.

“What’s your name?” I asked, as I sat back down next to her. I turned my body completely towards her and propped my elbow on the bench for support. She remained still, furiously debating the merits of my trustworthiness in her mind. Her eyes raced back and forth, and her lips moved rapidly, though no words were spoken. I repeated, “What’s—”

“My name’s Tara,” she wisped. Her body sighing, and the tension slowly seeping from her limbs, joints and muscles.

“What’s wrong, Tara?” I pushed—not knowing how long this line of inquiry was going to last.

“What’s wrong?” she snorted, as if she couldn’t believe the question. She turned and looked directly at me now. I could finally see her face, and found her to be rather attractive. Aside from the matted short brown hair and the tear-streaked face, she looked like any other young, female professional—maybe one or two years out of college. On any other day, she might be surrounded by male suitors at an office water cooler or chatting it up with her girlfriends at a local coffee shop. But not today—today her life had fallen violently apart and the enjoyment of suitors and lattés were far from her mind. As she peered at me, I noticed that her round brown eyes were anxious and scared—her lips, thin and trembling. I could tell she almost laughed at my previous question, but she held it in with an accustomed discipline.

“Please, Tara. Tell me how I can help you. Did somebody hurt you? Do you need to see a doctor? Please… Tell me what’s wrong!”

To this, she snapped to attention—her cynical smile replaced by an earnest frown. Whatever barrier of mistrust she had erected between us had now collapsed, and her brow fell in surrender. “Help me, please,” she whispered with all the heart-wrenching appeal of an ensnared lamb. “Th… there’s a demon inside me.”

This is me stretching out my writing muscle before beginning work on a long night of synopsizes, scripts and thumbnail layouts. I’m meeting Matt tomorrow for lunch. I want to have five scripts ready for him to begin working on should he choose to do so. I’ve spent the past week or so flushing out many story ideas that have been tucked away on paper scraps, post-it notes, random e-mails to myself and a vast amount of pages in my small black writing notebook. I even started fresh on one story idea that came to me in a nightmare I had a few nights ago. I’ve read a myriad of books on comic writing and storytelling. I had to stop myself from progressing on to my fiction writing book series (Elements of Fiction Writing)—it was tough, because I’m itching to read every single one of those. But, alas, I have procrastinated enough. It is time to sit down and get to work. I must keep in mind that every day I put off writing means one less day to devote to post-production (lettering, sound effects, page layout, printing, marketing/promotion, distribution). The first major comic convention in 2004 is in Orlando, FL in March (Jeff, I expect you to be there!).

While I’m sitting here spouting off, I might as well provide an update on my life. I moved to South Riding almost fifteen days ago. Moving was tough—the toughest move I’ve ever done. Maybe it was because I was well into my latest round of the Atkins diet, or maybe it was the fact that my brother and I had to do three separate truckloads in about 4 hours—all by our lonesome. My muscles gave out about two-thirds of the way through, and I became utterly useless towards the end. It seemed like every single muscle in my legs started cramping up, and my arms couldn’t seem to lift or hold on to anything anymore. But the sun came down, and the moving day eventually ended. And I was moved.

I spent the next several days unpacking and moving furniture here-and-there until I was pleased with the layout of my floor. I began the awful task of getting phone and cable service throughout the house. Cable wasn’t too hard (Adelphia seems to have it together), but the phone service—even to this day—has been a pain in the anus. There still isn’t a dial tone on any of the phones upstairs. The only phone jack working is the one in my basement room, which just happens to be the one place that doesn’t need a phone. Not only is the phone service non-existent, but the DSL line isn’t working either. Just this evening, I became so frustrated with Verizon, that I called Adelphia and asked them if they could provide me with better service. Of course, they could—and my cable Internet service is scheduled to be installed next Tuesday. It sucks that I have to wait another week before getting Internet access, but at least I can trust Adelphia to get the job done. My Internet-less life now has a specific end date. Verizon sucks.

Since moving, I’ve been eating very poorly. I’ve been drinking tons of soda and eating all the delicious, tempting candy that my parents seem to horde in the pantry. I just bought a new fridge for my floor, so I’ll have a bountiful supply of Atkins-friendly food and drink to satiate my cravings. I’ve also got my Bowflex and Orbitrek all ready for continuous, habitual use. Here’s to my health! (I am anxiously anticipating my 10-year high school reunion this summer!)

I was supposed to get together with my friend Donna in West Virginia during the week between Christmas and New Year, but she never returned my call or e-mails, so I decided not to bother making the drive. If she does call me, I’ll head down to Alderson lickidy split. I really want to see her again. I missed her wedding, so this would give us a chance to catch up before next summer’s shindig. Donna was the girl that inspired me to start the Bible study during my junior year in high school. It was really my way of securing social time with the girl I was madly in love with. Later, of course, the Bible study took on a much broader, nobler purpose—I invited ALL the girls I had crushes on! Donna, Sarah, Melanie, Kelly and me. We studied the Bible and worshiped God—and you can bet there was much praise and rejoicing on my part.

Man, I hope she calls.

Things are so different now. Life is so much harder. High school was simple—you had a crush on a girl, and you got up every day and went to each of your classes in anticipation of seeing her again. When you got home, you couldn’t wait to go to bed and do it all over again. I remember hating weekends, because that meant two whole days would pass before I’d be in her presence again. Now, weekends are all I look forward to. Everyday seems like Monday. And there is no one to inspire me.

Now I create my own inspiration. Through the thoughts of my mind and the fingers of my hands—I type. And the stories I tell are the inspired promptings that get me through the day. I would like to have a muse—like Donna, or Sarah, or Kelly, or Tara—but until one comes around, here I stand. I can do no other.

First of all, I stayed up last night until 4:30 AM procrastinating and packing. I had to get up at 8:30 AM the next morning for the final walkthrough of the new house in South Riding. I, of course, was late to the walkthrough.

After unloading my car, I said hello/goodbye to my mom, who just arrived from West Virginia. I was late for the book signing in McLean.

I traveled on that bastard road called 495 and was—again—late for the signing. I got in the back of the long line, which stretched to the rear of the store. Only after standing in line for almost an hour, I was told that we were allowed to bring in our own, previously purchased books. I had one in the car, but I didn’t dare get out of line to get it, so I ended up buying a second copy of the book.

Oh, and did I mention what the book was? …and who wrote it? The book is called Shut Up and Sing, and Laura Ingraham—a conservative radio talk show host, who is a frequent guest on FOX News shows like The O’Reilly Factor and Hannity & Colmes—is the author. I am personally smitten by Laura, simply because I’m amazed that there are actually smart, intelligent, politically-knowledgeable, traditional, bold, conservative, amusing, kick-ass, Christian women out there in the world. (Actually, she’s Catholic—but I guess no one’s perfect.) Her book is about the liberal elite, and how they are falsely representing the majority of Americans in this country via the media, politics and business.

While standing in line, some of the bookstore workers handed out post-it notes, on which we were supposed to write the personalized message we wanted Laura to write in our books. This is what I wrote down on mine…

Michael,
I think you’re hot and I want to date you. Please call me! (___) ___-____
Xoxoxo,
Laura

When it got to be my turn in line, she looked at what I wrote and laughed with an embarrassed snort. “I think I’m going to write something a little bit different,” she said. I took a picture of her, then asked the person behind me to take a picture of both of us. I went behind the table. She put her hand on my shoulder, and I put my arm around her waist. She said something and made a reference to the movie Tootsie. I just shook my head, shrugged my shoulders and told her I had never seen Tootsie. For some reason, that astonished her, and she shouted out to the crowd of people behind me, “He says he’s never seen Tootsie! Can you believe it? I don’t believe you.” Yeah, whatever, I thought. I was just enjoying holding her in my arms. After purchasing the signed book, I went out to my car and came back with my personal copy I brought from home. The line was shorter now—plus, I had nothing else to do—so I got in line again and had my other book signed. I foresee it being someone’s Christmas gift this year.

After leaving Books-a-Million, I didn’t know where to go. It was still a bit early to go meet up with Cheryl, but I didn’t have time to go all the way back home. I just kept driving and ended up on 495—so on to Cheryl’s I went.

For one reason or another, Cheryl was not at home, nor had she listened to any of the many phone messages I had left her during the day. I ended up sitting in my car for about an hour, reading Shut Up and Sing. That was satisfying while it lasted, but once the sun went down, my reading came to an end. Cheryl finally arrived, but had to take a shower and get ready. While I waited, I familiarized myself with her copy of Maus.

We finally made our way to D.C. and ate at Ruby Tuesdays (simply because it seemed less packed than the other restaurants). We ate quickly, then headed to the MCI Center. Our seats were way up at the top—I’d never been so high in a stadium/venue in my life. The air was cold, because of the huge sheet of ice below. The Washington Capitals were taking on the Detroit Red Wings, and Cheryl and I were cheering for different teams. I was a Caps fan, and Cheryl was a Red Wings fan. Unfortunately, it seemed like the majority of the other people in the stands were Red Wings fans, too. The Caps pretty much stink this year, and the Red Wings are always good, so it was no surprise—but still, it was so sad to hear more cheering for the visiting team than for the home team. It was sad, I say. In the end, the Red Wings beat the Capitals 5-to-1. Cheryl took the Metro home, and I took 66.

It was only 9:30 PM, or so. I was considering going to Clarendon for some drinks, but I missed the exit. Then I was hoping to go to Fairfax City to down a few, but by the time I reached the 123 exit, I was feeling way too tired. Instead, here I am at home. I still have a few things to pack, but I suppose that can wait ’til tomorrow. One more day, then it’s time to move.

So, what happens when a hard-working, highly motivated, creative-thinking man goes from working full time to not working at all? He makes an additional $650 on eBay (making his 2-month total over $1,400). He begins work on 5 book proposals with innovative, high-sale potential. He begins a collaborative effort to produce and promote a self-published comic, forging relationships with contacts in the industry and writing the first draft of the first issue. He sleeps ‘til 2 PM and goes to bed at 7 AM. He watches the entire fifth season of Buffy on DVD (and is disgusted by it). He gets back on the Atkins diet, eating one meal a day and losing ten pounds in two weeks. He doesn’t leave the house for several days at a time. He watches the O’Reilly Factor religiously every night and listens to the Laura Ingraham show online whenever he can. He packs his belongings in preparation for his move. He applies for jobs—just to be on the safe side. And today… He gets calls from two companies interested in hiring him. Not a bad way to spend a couple weeks.

My dearest friend leaves tomorrow for a month. She will not be here when I leave. She will not be here to say goodbye or send me on my way. We said our goodbyes tonight. And it was a hard thing to do. I spent an hour earlier curled up beside Maverick, the black kitty, taking a nap. I spent as much time as I could with Cody, the orange kitty, to tell him how much I loved him. I love them all. And it breaks my heart to leave them. I still want to be here for them. I want to protect them. I want to show them how much they matter to me. I don’t want them to be alone. I want her to feel loved, because there’s no one else who’ll make her feel that way. It would be easier if she had others in her life to turn to for friendship, help, and companionship. But there aren’t. And that’s what twists my heart in knots. I feel like I’m abandoning my best friend. Financially and socially—she’s come to depend on me. I know she’ll be able to manage, but the loneliness…

She’s so fragile. A small flower. I just want to keep my hands around her, and tell her over and over again that I love her. I hate myself for leaving her. I hate myself for leaving her.