I woke up and prepared myself a bounty of fresh coffee and store bought mini blueberry muffins.  I wanted to believe my morning good mood was a direct result of my culinary acquisitions, but they were only a small part.  I was a sixteen year old again inside, but not the one I had once been, the one whose memories I recoiled from.  No, this was a child from a world that I was not familiar with, one who bounced home after school and mooned about, thinking of the dreamy boy she crushed hard over.  The girl who was in a position to have the crushing boy return the desire, even in the slightest degree.  The girl who giggles, and blushes, and swoons.  The girl I have always loathed with jealousy, the girl who I mocked and glared at, hating never having a chance to be a part of that sort of world.

      It had maybe seventeen years between the first time I stepped into Mort's Bar and Grill as a child, attempting to sell candy bars for a school fundraiser, and when I walked through the doors again with Ben, and yet it somehow maintained the exact same smell of grease, beer and stale cigarette smoke.  I flashed back onto the ten year old Mackenzie, walking inside right after school, not knowing to be concerned to see several men quietly sitting at the bar, obviously several glasses in, at three in the afternoon, and I had sold five candy bars to Mort himself.  Those candy bars were sold to raise money for new playground equipment, and I was the third highest seller in the class.  Not enough to win any of the prizes, but it made me feel like the resulting swing-set was somehow more mine than other kids who hadn't pounded the pavement as dutifully as I had.  Installed late in the fall of my sixth grade year, they were immediately claimed by the Amber's and Michelle's as the hot spot for the recess set.  I am not sure how those kids made it out to the swings first every single day, but there was always at least one, holding onto the empty seats, saving them for better stock than the likes of someone such as myself.  Then, at the end of the year, I went off to junior high, and to this day have never set cheek on one of those blasted swings.

            I was still feeling the lingering pinch of a particularly savage attack of brain freeze from the ice cream when I heard noises coming from outside the big window.  Far too loud to be a bird seeking dinner, I assumed that it was either a person in my yard, or an impossibly big squirrel, and either way, I was going to need to look.  I crept up to the side of the window, all Mission: Impossible style to peak over the side of the glass in hope of not being seen by whomever was tinkering around out there. 

            I didn't plan on going to the bank today.

            No, my list of aspirations didn't branch beyond the goal of getting a few groceries to stave off starvation.  This would not have been an issue in any way, save for the fact that my debit card has run away.  I insist that I did not lose, it, but that it is hiding from me in an act of spite.  Somewhere in the taped boxes it lies, this I know, but despite a straight hour of digging, I remained empty handed. 

Hey everyone!

My apologies, but there will not be a new Chapter posted today. My mother had to be sent to the ER over the weekend, and has been in the hospital ever since. She should get to come home soon, but it has been a pretty serious and stressful weekend.

I will try and get one out later this week possibly, if my brain starts to function again properly, but if not, check back next Monday for the usual schedule.

Very sorry for the inconvenience!

            There is no way I am going.

            That is just all there is to it, I am not going. 

            I cannot tell which is a more horrifying prospect.  Is it the idea of going into town, where people could actually see me, or is it the fact that I am supposed to sit, and have dinner with Ben Stevens of all people?  Death by hanging, or firing squad?

            I didn't sleep in Grams room. I couldn't. I walked into her bedroom, looking around at her carefully made bed, adorned with a quilt of course, and it was suddenly a little bit harder to breathe. It had her smell, not the typical old lady smell that she and I would joke about her becoming afflicted with one day, the mixture of Ben Gay and formaldehyde that seems to accompany the octogenarian set. No, Ida Emerson always smelled of roses and freesia. Her signature scent, she would proudly announce.

             That smell.

            I hate that smell.

            A combination of burning leaves, melting snow, and the lingering chemical scent of the paper processing plant that lies on the very farthest outskirts of town. Far enough away that you can't see it from Main Street, but not far enough to free us from that unwavering stench.

            POP, POP, POP, POP!!!

            Fucking bubble wrap!

            It would be less irritating if that weren't the third time that had happened in the last half hour. You'd think that at some point, I would have wised up enough to have removed it from the high traffic area of my floor, but no. Instead, every time I walk through my living room carrying a freshly packed and sealed box to the door, I am treated to the sound of mimicked machine gun fire coming from beneath my feet. Being that it is in fact the third occurrence, it is insanely frustrating that this explosion causes me to shriek like a little girl, jump three feet in the air, and drop the box in my hands. The box that is unfortunately labeled "FRAGILE". The disheartening sound of shattering glass that rings out as the cardboard hits the floor makes me wince.