God (because you are neither 'dear' nor 'mine'):

Sometimes I wonder about you. A lot of the time, I'm cursing you for trivial things that you probably had nothing to do with. On rare occasion, I'm getting on my knees and thanking you for something you, also, probably had nothing to do with.

I think it's strange, that I attach so many events in my life to you, blessing you and spiting you in turns.

You probably don't know who I am, and I don't expect that you ever will, but I'm writing you this letter as I sit here while I nurse my mug of coffee and reminisce about the things in my life that I attribute to you.

Call me Archaic. I'm about to tell you some of the darkest secrets in my life.

-

Do you remember when I was little? Yes, back when I was so small I spent most of my time staring at knees, dragging my little Siamese-kitten-doll around? No, you probably don't.

I was too young then to know what you were, and I was too young to have been noticed by you, but I associate you with those times. Did you know that? Those times when we lived in a cramped house in a sort-of neighborhood, where the neighbors had big, burly dogs that scared me and gunshots and sirens could be heard in the night? Do you remember the pitiful, starving mother cat and her babies next door at the old abandoned house? The way they used to mewl at night, right outside my window?

I look back at those times, when walking with Mommy the two blocks to Checkers and getting a thing of French Fries was the highlight of my day, and I thank you, God, that you got my family out of there before my sister was two. Before she was old enough to remember the stained carpets and the bedroom my parents made out of the garage. The way everything smelled like mildew and dirt and how it was always dim inside.

Thinking back, now, I realize that the few times I have honestly been grateful towards you almost always revolve around my younger sister. I doubt you even know her name, either, so you can call her Puck. Why she uses Puck as her username on most sites nowadays is beyond either of us, I believe. I never bother to ask.

Do you want to know what else I am thankful for that you might or might not have had a hand in? Probably, because being thanked always feels good, whether or not you had anything to do with what you're being thanked for.

I thank you for that time I pushed my sister down the stairs at our new house, because she was getting on my nerves, and I thought it would be like that comic book I'd read, where the character rolls down, head over heels, and gets up, stars and birds whirring around his head. I thought it would be funny to see her tumble down all seventeen blue carpeted steps. This seems like a strange thing to thank you for, but I thank you nonetheless.

Because my sister cried, and stood up when she reached the tiled floor at the foot of the stairs. She cried, and there was a nasty goose-egg on her head for weeks, but she was okay, and I thank you so graciously for that.

When Mom and Dad came to the foot of the stairs, cradling my three year old sister- maybe four by that time, I was never good at keeping track of either of our ages- and they asked me what had happened, Dad with that stern look in his eyes that said: Answer me, or you will be punished later (though I was probably going to get punished later, anyways, if I told them the truth).

I'll tell you about what punished means later, because I'm just focusing on my thankyous, this time around.

When he looked at me like that, I opened my mouth, closed it, then mumbled:

"I don't know. She just fell."

Dark, dirty little secret. What's worse is that I didn't care. Sure, my heart seemed to drop out of my body, leaving a panicked empty space, when I saw her tumbling down the stairs, but as soon as she got up and cried, I was angry with her, because if she told, I was in trouble.

Maybe it's just a little bit sick, but I thank you that she was only three, or maybe four, and didn't understand that it was my fault or think to tell our parents.

I don't think I'll ever tell her, or my parents, that, because they have enough to hate me for, as it is. I'd rather not give them more reason.

I thank you for looking out for my sister when I was foolish and thoughtless, that time when she was singing into the plastic ice cream cone like a diva and I, thinking it would be a fantastic joke, threw plastic vegetables at her, booing and shouting that she sucked and needed to get off our make-shift stage, and one hit her in the eye, cutting the cornea. Thankyou for making sure her eyesight wasn't damaged, and thankyou for giving her such a good temperament for a five-year-old, that she didn't hate me.

I thank you for fixing my sister's pigeon feet, when they used to turn in and she walked funny. I didn't notice that was the case with her when I was a kid and she still had it, but I look at the pictures now and it makes me want to cry a little.

She's a phenomenal athlete now- a star runner fixing to join the track team at her new school- because sometimes I think you might have had something to do with that.

I thank you for reigning in my temper for those long years when I despised my sister like nothing else in the world, because I was a violent and vengeful child- I'll discuss where those tendencies came from when I discuss the meaning of punished- and I thank you for not bringing my sister into an age where she would clearly remember things until after my parents had patched things up between them (another issue I will tell you about later, because they are not a thankyou, my parents). At least she won't remember the things I remember.

I thank you, God, for looking out for my sister, the way you didn't always look out for me. I don't mind, though. I know you're busy, what with a billion people out there, all clamoring for your assistance. I'm just glad that you occasionally turned around and saw me before I hit an incorrigible low, plucking me out of it before it was too late. Thankyou for watching over my sister the way you never did me.

At moments like this, when I think about the things I am thankful to you for, it's easy to forget why I spend more time cursing you than thanking you.

Sincerely,
Archaic.

-
-
-
-
-

So, uh... a bit melodramatic, though all true. Some things sound worse than they actually are (the dreaded "Punished" and "she won't remember things I remember" aren't as awful as I made them seem).

Yup. This is just me joining the bandwagon, because I do so enjoy jumping bandwagons, occasionally. Simply a journal, in the form of letters to God, recounting things that I've done which I could never tell to my close friends or admit to my family, but that I feel need to be said.

As quoted in the summary, "There's something... comfy... about telling secrets to strangers who'll never know your name."

Thankyou for reading.

I'm agnostic, but send your good will out to my little sister. She's such a sweet girl, and she still looks up to me, even after all the crap I've done.

-
-
-

By the way, this will catch up to my present life. Eventually. There's just not enough drama right now for it to be worthwhile, seeing as it's summer vacation and my social life goes *poof*, and my parents are away at work, so it's just me. Nothing interesting happening there, 'cept my dark mind that I am definitely keeping to myself... 'cuz I don't think the world is ready for that, just yet...

Besides, most of my dark little secrets I haven't told anyone yet lie in my past, so I want to admit and own up to them first.

Um... if you don't believe in God or you're not Christian... neither do I. I just thought it was an interesting way to do this. So, yeah. Please don't be offended or anything, yadda yadda. There will be much screaming and cursing at whatever God I am speaking to (maybe he's Allah?) so if you're overly pious and think you will be offended by me calling Him not-so-nice names... I suggest you don't read, because I'd rather not get flamed over something like religion.

If anyone really really thinks it's a bad idea for me to use the "letters to god" format, then just say so calmly and I'll think of something else to do and change it up, okay? But I think this is okay...

Anyways... I'll probably always have a little ruse at the bottom of each letter just to mention stuff about my stories and how they're coming along, stuff like that.

At the moment, I'm beginning to work on an AU Neji x Shikamaru fic, the first completely AU fic I've ever written (aside from the one I got two hundred words into before my computer crashed).

I'm also protesting any further work on What I Never Had. Why? Because I stupid eff'ing goddanged (string of cuss words) saved over it with a blank document, so now I have to start all the way over, and that just makes me mad. So it'll probably be a very very very long time before that one gets updated...

Oh, and regarding that fic, I'm thinking about changing the title from What I Never Had to Methods of Malady. Why? Because Methods of Malady will make it easier for me later for reasons I won't tell you, and because I just think it's a bit catchier... and I can, comically, call it the MoM series, if I use that title. Here's the definition of Malady, which might not make complete sense why it works better than the title I have at the moment, but you'll get it later:

1: a disease or disorder of the animal body.
2: an unwholesome condition.

Please tell me your opinions?

Anyways, next time I'll just put some funny stuff I've noticed about my writing that maybe you haven't noticed... yet. You'll start noticing it once I've pointed it out.

God:

Let's talk about Father. I am neither thankful to you for him nor am I resentful toward you for him. He is not a bad father, no, they come much worse than him, but he is neither a great father nor a great man nor a good role model.

You brought me to him before he was truly ready, I believe.

Once again, I ask you: do you remember when I was little? As always, I answer for you: Probably not.

I remember the times when money was tight and we lived in that cement-brick house that needed a new paint job so badly and the way we really should have had bars protecting our windows. The balding yard and scraggly weeds that poked up. (Do you remember how I used to play in the weeds? Play-pretending that they were a magnificent field of wheat and corn that I, the fairy-princess-farmer, had cultivated with my own hand? Or the way I used to scramble over the wire-fence into the neighbor's yard, where the weeds bloomed pretty white flowers, when their dogs were safely locked inside, and make bouquets?).

Back then, Mommy and Daddy were still what could have been considered "newly-weds" (I'm an 'illegitimate', conceived-out-of-wedlock child). I can't remember if the reason they didn't argue back then was because Father worked two jobs and Mother worked nights at the police station and money was too tight for them to think about anything but, "Where will money for groceries come from? What about our bills? The mortgage?" or if they didn't argue back then because they were still early enough into their marriage that they wanted nothing but to make the other happy.

I don't know, but I almost miss those days, when Mommy used to give me crooked haircuts in the cramped bathroom down the hall because we couldn't afford the five dollar place downtown or when Daddy used to swing me up onto his shoulders because life back then was just that simple and pleasurable. I almost kind-of miss those days, because that was back when Daddy didn't yell.

It wasn't until Daddy finally finished college and could speak passable English that he got a job working for the University, something to do with computers and making programs for the doctors and nurses at the county hospital. (My parents met in China, where Mother was Father's English teacher. They married in China, possess only six photos of the wedding, and she went back to America alone after the school year ended. He arrived the following Christmas as her "present"... a charming story, really). It wasn't until Mommy got a job in the insurance companies doing Workers Compensation Claims, that Daddy started yelling.

By then my sister had been born. Mother tells me, sometimes, how she had screamed at the doctors during labor that "I have money, I have insurance, this time! It shouldn't hurt!" Apparently they didn't give her enough pain meds. We had enough money to buy a new house, a nice, pretty, two-story one in a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood where there weren't gunshots or sirens or starving mommy cats and their babies. Funny how I recall being so disappointed when I found out the ice-cream truck didn't go through that neighborhood.

(I haven't seen an ice-cream truck since I was six).

When we moved into that new house... that was about when Daddy started yelling. I remember being very frightened. The feeling of such bitter fear is a bit muddled now by time, but I do remember it. I remember getting up at night, past my bedtime, to go to the bathroom and hearing Mommy and Daddy in their room, yelling. Well, Daddy yelling, Mommy trying to reason, though sometimes she would lose it too. I remember standing at the top of the stairs and listening to them argue.

I remember flinching whenever Daddy would slam his fist on a wall a door a dresser a counter a cabinet.

I remember how it never once occurred to me to be relieved that he never once hit Mommy.

Most of the times he yelled and hit things or broke dishes or slammed doors are a blur to me. I just recall the afraid part, and know that those were the reasons why. There are, however, two instances which stand out to me, not much, but more so than the rest (forgive me, my memory has a way of smearing itself into one big blur, and it's hard to pick things out).

I remember standing in the kitchen, I can't recall why I was there, and I heard voices in the garage. I stood closer to the door, pressed my ear to it. I remember that it was cold, because it was just metal painted over with white, and that my heart felt like it had dropped out of my chest. There was yelling, from both ends, Daddy and Mommy. Then I heard something slam against the hood of the car (we still have that car, God, incase you care to know. Please keep its engine running long enough for me to drive it). The sound was loud, hollow; stinging, like a chunk of shrapnel had just been imbedded in my chest where my dropped heart had left a hole. I remember being so scared I backed away from the door and ran upstairs to my room, crying.

That was the only time I wasn't entirely sure something other than his fist and an inanimate, replaceable object hadn't been given a good thrashing.

It was around this time, also, that I stopped calling him Daddy. Did you notice, God, when I started saying "Dad" instead of "Daddy"? I didn't, but maybe you did.

The second time that stands out is the time when punched a hole in the wall of our nice, pretty, blue two-story house. I don't even recall them yelling, because I think I was downstairs either doing the dishes, doing my homework, or watching TV. Maybe I was outside playing, but I don't think that was the case. Either way, when I went upstairs and passed by their room, Dad was sitting on their bed, his knuckles bleeding.

"What happened?" I asked, stepping in.

"Oh, nothing, honey," Mom answered with a smile, coming back from their bathroom and giving Dad a damp rag to clean up with, "Your daddy just got angry, is all."

"Oh, okay," I said, turning to leave.

It was then that I saw the hole in the wall, about a foot away from the door frame. Gaping, jagged, empty. I don't remember seeing the insulation, but there must have been insulation visible as well. There was a large crack near the floor, where he must have kicked it, too. It was very very frightening to see the brute strength of my father. Maybe your dad can punch through a wall, too, but I was somewhere around eight at that time. Back then powerful, to me, meant being able to sling my skinny little eight-year-old self onto his shoulders. Terrifying was being able to create maddening holes in the walls I called my home.

I almost fondly look back at these times and call them the "Anger-Management" years.

Did you know that my parents went to a marriage counselor? Did you know Father took Anger Management counseling sessions? I didn't. I remember sitting in an office, filling out some questions that I thought were all very strange, about beating and touching, but I never made the connection between the office, the questions, and my parents' marriage when I was a kid.

These are the years when I began lying very very fluently, to avoid this thing my parents called "punishment".

Surely you remember what "punishment" meant, don't you, God? With Mother, it was usually as simple as "No TV for a month" or "You're grounded for a week, meaning you can't leave your room except for school and meals".

With Father, it was a whole different experience, though, wasn't it?

Nearly every kid gets spanked when they grow up. But isn't spanking supposed to be done with the hand? I laugh at how many creative things my father came up with.

Most kids have to either stand still, or lay across their parent's lap.

I had to stand bent over the bed (I was short enough that it worked. Heavens, I'm probably still short enough that it could work, though he's done away with that type of punishment now).

I remember Mother's huge brush with the widely spaced bristles. I remember Father's belts, with the shiny metal clasps. I remember a tennis racquet, once, maybe twice, and even a high-heeled shoe.

The worst was the brush, I think. It was so old and used that the little rubber caps on the bristles were mostly gone, leaving the sharp, untrimmed plastic teeth uncovered. It was a bit like getting hit with a lot of needles. The belt was pretty bad too, because he always held it a bit like a whip and used the metal end. The tennis racquet was probably the one I wished he would use more often, because it was big and wide and he couldn't get as much momentum going with that one. We won't go into the shoe.

I don't hate you for his form of "punishment", God, because I understand that he comes from China, where beating your own kid with a bamboo rod is perfectly normal, and he comes from the time just before that practice was beginning to be frowned upon, and from a family that was too poor to be affected by the changes in the upper classes who were exposed to the slow Westernization of China (he tells me he remembers being so hungry that he ate grass, and of another time he was so hungry he ate grasshoppers, and of yet another time when there was no grass for him or the grasshoppers, so there really was nothing). I don't begrudge you, because I understand, and because I was never so severely hurt that I couldn't walk afterwards, but damn it all, if I wasn't terrified of it.

Especially after the time I saw he was capable of punching clear through a wall. Then, I was terrified that he would do the same to me as he had done to the wall.

(It was a full month before my parents got around to plastering the spot back together again).

We lived in that house for quite a while. Father discovered he like karaoke, he discovered a community of Asian people and finally made friends. Mother lost her job once, went back to college to become a nurse or something of the sort, like my Aunt, but eventually was offered a position, the same one as before, at her old company, and she went back.

During those eight months when Mother had no job, however, the money became a bit tight. Not because Father's job didn't pay well, but because our living style cost more then. Our house was bigger, our yard needed watering and fertilizing and care. We kept the thermostat lower, we had two TVs. We had two children running around, leaving lights and fans on all the time. There were four mouths, not three, and the youngest ones didn't understand the concept of "not wasting food".

During those eight months, the money was tight again, and maybe Mother and Father remembered when their marriage was younger and they didn't argue. Maybe they were just too busy doing different things- Father making the money, Mother learning new things- for them to argue any more.

I remember how Mother and Father worried that I would be upset that Mother had lost her job.

I was actually quite happy, because things in the house were much much quieter then, than they had been in years.

When Mother came back into her job, things stayed relatively quiet. I think you know that they didn't stop arguing, but Father learned to control his temper (the only other time he's punched a hole in a wall was the time he pulled too far into the garage and hit my bike which the handle bars of went through the wall) and Mother finally learned how to compromise some of her American beliefs to accommodate his Chinese ones.

It also helped that I had finally mastered the art of lying by then, so I didn't get caught and punished nearly as often.

I don't think my sister has ever once been spanked with anything but a hand, and I don't think she was ever spanked after she turned five (she doesn't remember being spanked for being bad). She grew up in a time where my family had enough money to afford a TV, so she grew up close to her little tele-set, and that was how they punished her. No TV for doing this, no TV for doing that, etc.

Anyways, my father is neither someone I thank you for nor someone I resent you for. He's merely in my life, an influence on my person and my decisions. At least you, God, did not make him an unchangeable person. He's almost agreeable to hang out with, now, and I haven't heard him yell in at least four months (that might have something to do with the fact that both Mother and Christine have been away for two weeks now, though).

I will tell you about the things he has done that I hate you for, later, however. For now, I am finished discussing my father.

Sincerely,
Archaic.

-
-
-
-
-

Mm, yup, I used to hide under my desk to avoid spankings. Which I guess was a really bad place to hide, since it was easy to see me there... oh well. I wasn't the most brilliant of children.

Anyways, like I said at the end, he's gotten a lot better now. Much more mellow. Actually, he lets me get away with more than Mother does, usually. It's been very interesting to see them changing roles.

Um, let's see, I don't think there's anything else I need to say... oh wait, yes, there is.

Don't call any Abuse Centers or whatever they're called. I wasn't abused. Or, at least, I don't consider it abuse. I mean, it was just getting spanked. Lots of kids get spanked, even if I was getting spanked with some painful crap. Just... don't get me or my father in trouble for telling you about this.

You know... none of my friends know I ever came from a poor family (they all think I'm filthy rich, but I'm not... my family is just very stingy about how much we spend- this summer was the first time in two and a half years that I've gone clothes shopping, aside from one shirt I got at Wal Mart a bit over a year ago.). I guess I used to be embarrassed about it. Still am, a bit, even though it really shouldn't be something to be embarrassed about. I should be proud that my family made it out of poverty...

Eh, I'm strange.

Nothing to say about my stories except that the inspirations keep coming, but the motivation to actually get the writing done is lacking. I apologize if nothing worth your time to read gets posted for a while. (Because no, I don't consider these letters worth your time to read, heh).

That's all I gotto say, I guess. Over and out.

Yay! This is not a letter to God!

I just thought I'd tell you all that I only have one more day of Band Camp 2 left [does a jig]

Unless something goes horribly wrong tomorrow (the last day) it appears I will be emerging relatively unscathed. Relatively unscathed meaning:

Split lip in four places
Sunburn on the tops of my arms
... but still utterly pale underneath. What a terrible tan...
Funky farmers-tan ankles to match
A couple bruises on my butt from falling (because it's apparently our drill writer's goal in life to give the largest step sizes to the shortest kid in the band)
Rashes on the backs of my legs (Because they made me sit in the grass, and I'm allergic to grass. Yeah, don't ask)
Really red cheeks and wounded pride because two of my friends slapped me very very hard for stuff I did two years ago (yes, they're still punishing me for it)
A slightly twisted ankle from tripping over a stray Drum Major (but not twisted enough to excuse me from marching... curses!)
Extremely sore heels (not a single band member escapes that)
And a swollen pinky finger from holding my trumpet incorrectly (because otherwise my thumb would hurt from holding it correctly... ugh.)

So yes, I though I would just share with you the ailments of band.

Unfortunately, it's likely that tomorrow something awful will happen like I'll trip and land face-down on my trumpet and smash my brains out. Or I could just get clobbered by a Contra, who the idiot Drill Writer who hates me has placed me next to for the entire opener of our show.

And... for those of you less band-savvy... you probably don't understand any of what I was just rambling about, but that's alright. Just know that I don't have it nearly as bad as some kids (aside from the busted lips... there are only two fourth trumpets, but the other girl just got braces as well as the fact that she is a freshman, so she's not really... playing... so when they say, "More fourth trumpet!! LOUDER!" ... It's all me, blowing my busted lips out some more.).

Yup. It's great.

So... yeah. In all likelihood, I should really get to sleep... because if I don't get sleep there's no way I can possibly expect to march for twelve hours in 110 degree heat index weather (and humid as all get-out, because the weather where I live just sucks).

Hm, so that's the update on my situation. After Band Camp 2 ends tomorrow I have one week before school starts. This may, or may not, be my last post before then. Depends on whether or not I can kick my butt hard enough to practice flute as much as I should be... and whether or not my piano teacher decides to dump more crappy music on me, and whether or not I get my Calculus BC Prep Sheet from my friend, etc., etc.

Good news is, incase no-one noticed, because I know that I updated at a weird time, What I Never Had (now titled Methods of Malady) has been updated, and the stories Dreaming of Demons and Make Your Move have been added.

I also have a WIP for the Teachers and their Students, a Kakashi x Neji, as requested (or, at least, I think it was requested... ho hum.) and another WIP, an AU Neji x Shikamaru fic that I'm considering titling Crescendo. We'll see if that sticks.

Oh, and I'm working on the Kakashi x Asuma for the Strangest Pairing One-Shots thing for ohyeah.

Um, good luck with school in one week, for those of you whose schools start when mine does? Wish me luck surviving tomorrow, the week after, and then school?

I'll probably see you again later next week, and if not then, then I will see you at the next three- or four-day weekend. Yup.

Over and Out,
-Archaic

God;

People disappoint me. Or maybe, I disappoint them. Probably, we all disappoint each other, and everything just seems to go downhill.

You know, I'm indolent and a natural procrastinator. I confess. The thing is, once I get my lazy ass into gear, I'm all efficiency and perfection. Whether it be a school project or a simple drabble, I try to do my best. It's important to me, because, hell, if I'm going to do something, why shouldn't I do it the best I can. Seriously! If I'm going to work, then why work for a crap-ass result? Might as well go the whole way, since I'm already up.

I like TONFA. I like what the mods have done, I like the privileges they grant us with images and html capabilities. It's a freedom which most other archives don't allow. And for good reason.

TONFA has gone out on a branch for us authors and given us these privileges when other sites would not, because people abuse them. They post stories consisting almost entirely of images and what little writing they include is of the lowest quality. And not because the writer isn't capable, but purely because it doesn't matter to them.

I love TONFA, but I can't stand much of the stuff archived on it and a large portion of the composing population. I recently submitted a rather critical constructive review on a story I was interested in. I was succinct and honest in my opinions, though I made suggestions and pointed out the good things, too.

What irks me- no, damn right pisses me off (because I'm pissed off enough to use swear words)- is what the author said in response:

"Im like 18, goof around all the time, and mostly write random storys with no real plot, wich are badly written. You are also probably the first person who actually took a review seriously"

Okay, ignoring the lack of apostrophe usage and spelling errors (and at age eighteen, that's quite sad), take a look at the last sentence. Damn right pisses me off.

I understand that reviews are supposed to be all, "Yay! OMG, I loooooved it! LAWL! XD Amazing! Plz update soon! I lurve it!" and junk like that which gives the author good feelings and motivation to keep writing. Yes. I can approve of that (please with less chatspeak, though. Spare us all.) But they are intended to be serious, and I sincerely hope that I am not the first person to take them seriously. There's a huge problem if I am.

Yes, reviews are to praise stories and make the author happy, but they are primarily meant for constructive criticism and helping fellow author's improve their skills, etc. I would love to get more constructive criticism in reviews, but it seems that he is right. I am the only one who really takes them seriously.

(Don't get all pissy on me now that I've said that. I don't want a million and one comments left on this saying that "I take reviews seriously, too!" I'm not saying this to have you whine at me about it)

But, really. No wonder the quality of things on TONFA is going down. Nobody cares, and the people who do get brushed off like some joke.

Damn right pissed off.

Go to hell, God.
-Archaic