Valentine's Day Massacre

How do you feel after a break up?  The first time Farrell and I broke up I felt stone cold slaughtered.   Sort of like a humongous Frost Troll from Skyrim had gotten a good grip on my heart and ground it under his feet.

But then it got to be a stupid habit.  And I do mean stupid.  Like my brother Mike once told me:  "If you walk under a certain tree on your way to school every day and a gorilla craps on your head, you have to learn to walk another way."  So, when Farrell and I broke up again this year, I realized that it had to be the last time.  We were doing a dance that was never going to land either of us anywhere good.

It's hard, sometimes, to realize that it's not your fault/his fault.  It is just us together that doesn't work.

Enter Wesley.

I know.  What a freaking lame name.  Worse than Derek.  Actually, I think Derek is a rather nice name.  Farrell never would have started using his surname if Craig Vagell hadn't started calling him Dork Farrell in grammar school. 

Anyway, Wesley is a complicated thing.  Celeste and I met him when he moved to the US from the UK in seventh grade.  He dressed weird.  Wore bow ties.  He was a complete geek, hence, an outcast in our school where jocks and gang bangers were the preferred flavors of the month.  But Celeste and I kind of felt like outcasts ourselves so we could relate.   We hung with Wes until he found his niche in high school as the captain of the Robotics Club.

Then, our sophomore year, he started to grow into his gangly legs and bandy arms.  His thin face started to morph into some kick ass bone structure.  His shaggy hair went from fall-in-his-blue-eyes-sloppy to fall-in-his-blue-eyes-sexy.  I mean, even I had to admit that he'd turned out pretty damn good.

But I wasn't interested.  Maybe I'd just looked at him as a friend too long.  Celeste was the one who harbored lustful thoughts of reprogramming one of his robots to grab him by the seat of his pants and deliver him to her bedroom in the dead of night.

Unfortunately, as these things often go, I suspected that Wes had the hots for me.  Even Farrell picked up on Wes cow-eyeing me before we broke up.  And Farrell can be pretty thick.

Well, for the past few months, Wes and Celeste and I have been working on something.  I think I told you in my last blog that things were getting weird again.  I meant that in the paranormal sense.  But, lately, you can add that descriptor to Wesley because he seems to be getting a little bit more obvious with his interest in me.   And Celeste isn't taking it too well.  I mean, her mom and dad look like they're headed for a divorce and she's been fragile to begin with.  Losing Wes (even though she never had him), is just another nail in the coffin of her dying self-esteem.

That's why today was especially hard on her.  To commemorate our camaraderie in our latest spooky escapade, Wes gave me a dead rose.  It was a damned dead rose.  A joke.  Unfortunately, he gave it to me in front of Celeste.  ALL men can be pretty thick I guess.  Dead rose or not, he didn't give anything at all to Celeste and she was devastated.  Massacred was what she called it.  So I have spent all day sharing the Russell Stover heart my dad gave me with her and watching one of her Oscar worthy dramatic crying scenes.

So, in short, both of our Valentine's Days were massacred. 

She ate all my caramels.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Crap! Crap! Crap!

Ummmm...after all the banshee stuff last year, I didn't really want to get involved with another paranormal situation.  But, before I knew what was going on, I was already into it.  And then I didn't think that The Fey and an old lizard would be as scary as a red-eyed banshee.  I might have been wrong.

I'm writing all about this in my diary now.  It will be put together in a book called The Darkest Book on the Shelf.  Seriously, folks, even LIBRARIES can scare the crap out of a person.

Tell you more when I get back.

Brandy