The author is angsty once more, folks, and this is going to be one of those Too Much Information entries that only makes sense some of the time. You know, the shamelessly weepy-whiny-selfish ones that tend to make readers cringe in disgust. Though just about every other entry I’ve banged out offers evidence to the contrary, I’m truly not terribly fond of such entries. At any rate, this ’un reminds me vaguely of that sort. I don’t mean to lower your opinions of me, m’dears, but I need to get some things off my chest. Apologies in advance.

"Whatever I did, I didn’t mean to." An unspoken litany that evolved over the past few months. Good for talking to oneself, particularly in times of crisis that no one else ever knows about, and taken seriously, very seriously, by oneself nevertheless. Sadly, I’ve implemented it frequently.

So stuff happened, as it has a tendency to do, and some more stuff happened, and then several stuffs happened at once, and Ivy started thinking, which happens every now and then as well.

I never meant to turn out this way. There are so many things I’d have done differently had I known what they would eventually lead up to. As I kid, I figured I’d somehow automatically, gradually, naturally as the dawn, metamorphose into a person I would be proud to call myself. Something, it seems, went wrong. Tell me what’s right about me, tell me what’s wrong. Heaven knows, I’ve tried myself, but I’ve never been good at much of anything. Where (excuse the cliché) did I go wrong? I worked out quite a few answers; they never made me feel any better.

I thought this not-me person would always be good enough for whatever she set her mind to, always persevere until the desired results came about, never let anyone down, never let herself down.

Eh. Oops?

Can’t make the grade, aren’t up to par, need to work on this and that, we’re very disappointed, thought better of you, set an example, try, apply, we’re very disappointed in you. Yes, me too. I didn’t plan on ending up mediocre and useless.

I’ve got some talents, really, but they’re all rather useless. C’est moi, etc.

I made a wish in Brussels and I made a wish in Bruges and neither one came out quite right.

You can do something about this, Ivy thinks, over the years. You can change things.

And its try, apply, set an example, very disappointed, put in another token, repeat cycle, keep on going till the ride runs down. She never was very good at getting those desired results either; mediocrity didn’t get along with them well.

So things got more and more drastic. She never counted on lasting as long as she did and when she found herself still kicking, she sighed, grimaced, wondered if she was weak, wondered about everything, and put in another token because, well, there was nothing else to be done. Thinking and wondering never got anyone anywhere. Action makes the world go round; action brings results.

Round again, dears, mind the angst.

I’m not as bad as I seem, am I? Am I, am I, am I, am I…? And et bloody cetera forever and ever. Even if I am, I can still change, right? Make myself proud of myself for once.

You can still change things, Ivy thinks, a trifle desperately.

Yes, Ivy agrees, you can change, and while the sky darkens she gathers a few things from the garage, a few things from the bathroom, a few things from her bedroom. I’ll change them, then, she says.

Ivy is a bit taken aback. I didn’t mean like that! she cries.

But the stuffs had already happened and maudlin madness was swirling around in her brain along with all the doubt and apathy that was always there. They met in a bad way.

Whatever I did, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to make myself into this, so I’ll backpedal a bit, make it so I can’t botch anything else up, maybe even cancel out a few things that I’ve already botched. That was in her mind, too; lovely, neh?

So she kept her supplies close and, after pretending to go to bed, she crept out the back door. And Ivy headed into the woods behind her house to, ahem, pull a Judas.

Back to those useless talents. Useless Talent # 343 is the ability to swallow pills without the aid of a water glass. Useless Talent # 95 is the ability to knot a noose. They were duly utilized and the proceedings were carried out surprisingly well.

The thing about hanging yourself is that sooner of later somebody has to find the body. If Medusa found it, she’d blame the Curmudgeon, if he did, he’d blame her, the Gorgons would go off the deep end, the house would fall apart, and things would go to pieces. So much for not botching things up. I’d been standing on one of those little plastic kiddie chairs and, rather than kicking the thing away, I simply allowed myself to step off, planning to more or less...swing until the inevitable occurred. It was easy enough to thrash back onto it, gasp, wheeze, locate some gag reflexes, and collapse in the creek thinking haphazard thoughts: I should have thought less and just jumped, but then, its quite an indecorous way to end, smacks of spinelessness, and now I know better don’t I, and it was quite stupid (surprise, surprise), besides which I finally got Monte Cristo really and truly unabridged and I can’t go anywhere yet, I haven’t finished my book, etc. And after that it was easy enough to slip back inside, crawl onto the roof, and reenter my room through the window. So now my neck is a complete mess, my arm is a complete mess, and my head is a complete mess, and I have yet to complete my labs for the science prof, which I really should do because, unfortunately, tomorrow is another day.

Adieu.