The Ouija Pen

I have to get in the computer, I don’t know how, but there has got to be a way. The world has changed too much; I cannot survive as I always have anymore. Clearly, the computer is the only answer. Once, there was no shortage of people who could lend me a hand, whenever one was done with me the next swooped right in and picked me up. But now everyone is on the computer instead. Clearly, that is also where I need to be, but how do I get there? I mean, I have gone through changes before, I have adapted and attuned to the world around me, but this would be my biggest adjustment yet. From physical, in person work to digital I guess, and also there is something called the internet? I don’t know, but I have to figure it out.

So here I am, sitting on this desk, in this dusty cup shoved back in the corner, right behind the computer actually. I mean I can see it, it is right there, so how do I get in? Ugh, I feel defeated. I have the ability to connect with other dimensions and the beings that reside there, but I cannot figure out this freaking new technology. It used to be people could just grab me and hold me in their little hand. My slight ethereal glow, unnoticeable by the naked eye, was a lure for their unsuspecting subconscious. It drew them to me. They would pick me up, and instead of composing a term paper, or an essay, or a note to their lover, they would be unwittingly connecting with the third realm, bringing forth demons and spirits, and whatever else had paid me to be relocated from that other dimension and into this one. I never asked why these otherworldly beings wanted to come here, I am sure they have their reasons, and really it is not a concern of mine as long as I get paid, but now that people don’t use pens anymore, I can no longer make a living. The lifestyle I have become accustomed to is suffering. So what is a Ouija pen supposed to do? It is clear; I need to go where the people are. They are the catalyst, I need them, so I have to meet them in their new world. I have to get into that damn computer.

Okay, so here is the plan, I think I have finally got it. You see, since I am a conduit between two worlds, that unearthly dimension and this other, well, earthly one, I may be able to use my power to bridge the dimensions to relocate myself into the computer. Just like when a person picks me up and I take over their body for a few minutes, just a few minutes, really, it is not as creepy as it sounds. Anyway, so I can take over their body for a few minutes just like I do to bring the ghosts and ghouls from that other dimension into this one, by forcing a person’s hand to write the incantation that brings the spirit forth, only this time that incantation will be focused on brining my spirit forth, from this pen that I have embodied for centuries, to that computer. It is the perfect solution, however now that I have thought of it, I am actually kind of sad. I guess I am just being nostalgic for this pen, I mean it is so beautiful, a work of art really, and I have been privileged to use it as a tool for my profession for so long. But the computer, it is a big ugly plastic box, not nearly as sexy as the pen, I will miss it, but I have got to do what I have got to do. The netherworld is counting on me; my bank account is counting on me.

I wonder how much longer I will have to wait to put this plan into fruition. I feel like I have been hanging out in this cup behind this computer forever now. Oh wait, here we go, finally, someone is reaching for me, they are picking me up, they are getting a piece of paper, its show time! 

fiat mirabilis spiritus ad hanc pervenisse sectam quae stylo transferri in computatrum ad nutum continue…

 01010111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00111111 00100000 01001111 01101000 00101100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110011 01100101 01100101 00101100 00100000 01110111 01101111 01110111 00101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110011 01101111 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101110 01111001 00100000 01110000 01100101 01101111 01110000 01101100 01100101 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00101110 00100000 01001110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01101000 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110100 01110010 01101111 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00111111 00100000 01001111 01101000 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100111 01101111 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00101110 

Oh yeah, it worked!

The Voting Booth

She spent the weeks leading up to the election studying the candidates and ballot measures in detail. She knew it was vital to make informed decisions; she wanted to understand what each side thought, the pros and cons of each measure, and who the candidates really were and what they really believed, as much as you could figure such a thing out. But she knew it was important, so very very important. What had been happening in the country lately was upsetting and disgusting and it was her duty to make decisions that could help curtail the madness that those in power were forcing on the people.

When Election Day came around she was ready, she knew exactly who and what she was voting for and against. She entered the voting booth with confidence and conviction, and a touch of nervousness about the choices everyone else would be making today. But there was a movement, she sensed it around her. There were a lot of other people out there who felt the way she did and she was certain that they saw the importance of casting their vote this time.  As she made her selections she felt a sense of pride, of doing her part, however small, to reshape the country that she called home into a better place for everyone.

When the final screen on the voting machine came up, asking her to confirm her choices before submission, she was shocked to see that every one of them had been changed from her original selections.  What she had said yes on, now said no. What she had said no on, now said yes. Her choices for Governor, Senate, City Council, and all other offices, which had all been Democrat, were now all showing as Republican. She stared in horror, how could this be? And yet, she found herself reaching for the button marked submit, as if her arm had a mind of its own, and she was powerless to stop it. As her finger pressed firmly down, sending her ballot to be counted, a vacant smile took over her face and a laugh she had never heard before escaped from somewhere deep inside of her. She found she was happy, after all she had done her civic duty, and she was going to change the world. She spun on her heel and marched confidently out of that voting booth. As she reached into her purse for her car keys she found something else as well. Pulling it out she saw it was a red baseball cap. She set it proudly on her head as she emerged into the sunlit parking lot, joining the throngs of people who were wearing the same red cap and sporting the same vacant smile she was. Oh yes, they could make a difference, they would change the world. She continued her measured march across the parking lot to her car. She was on a mission now to get home and turn on Fox News.

Where It Went Wrong

Erin shifted back and forth, her chair squeaking with every movement, but she just couldn’t get comfortable. Everything itched so much. Ugh, now the teacher had stopped lecturing and was glaring at her. How the fuck was she supposed to make it through today!

Erin and Lanie were hanging out at the edge of the field when Alex approached. She looked around to make sure no one else was watching, and pulled a little brown box out of the back pocket of her JNCO jeans.

“Oh shit, cloves, where did you get them?” asked Erin excitedly.

“Who gives a fuck” Lanie said, “I have a lighter, let’s go smoke.”

The three disappeared down the seldom used trail that lead into the oak woods at the edge of the field, making their way carefully on the muddy path until they were far enough that they thought they were hidden from anyone who might wander by on the field above. Alex pulled the pack out again, ripped through the foil lining, and carefully removed a long thin brown cigarette. Lanie hastily grabbed it from her hand, placed it in her mouth, lit it, and inhaled. She quickly blew out a cloud of sweet spicy smelling smoke then gave it back to Alex.   Around the circle it went, with each girl taking a clumsy drag before passing it on. When it had been smoked to the filter Erin bent down and ground the smoldering tip out in the mud. She shoved the butt into her empty soda bottle and screwed the cap closed.

“Let’s get back” Alex said, turning to head up the trail.

“Wait, I have to pee” Erin responded as she pulled down her pants to squat on the edge of the path, but the ground was soggy from the winter rains and she slipped, tumbling down the hill bare ass first, she landed in some bushes ten feet below.

“Dude, Erin, what the fuck” Lanie giggled.

“Shit” Erin exclaimed, as she scrambled back up the muddy slope, her pants still around her ankles. She reached the path, yanked them up, and collapsed into a fit of laughter.

Alex just rolled her eyes “you know that was poison oak”.

“Nuh-uh” Erin countered.

“Whatever” Alex said as she turned to head up the trail again “We gotta get back, my mom is picking me up soon and you are going to need to think of an excuse for why you are so muddy, you know how your parents are.”

Erin woke up and looked at the clock, 2 am. As she rolled over to go back to sleep she reached down to scratch an itch. Suddenly she remembered what Alex had said earlier. She sprung out of bed and ran to the bathroom. She turned on the light while slamming the door shut, pulled down her pajamas, and spun around to look in the mirror. Her entire back side was covered in an angry red rash. Shit, it was poison oak.

The Approaching Crowd

The people often wondered what would happen to their world if the unthinkable were to happen, if they all became extinct. They pondered and imagined and wrote books and produced movies about how their world would change. What would survive, what would thrive, and what would wither away and die without their influence? But as the end drew near, they stopped pondering and imagining, focusing instead on continuing to exist. It worked, they did not die off; instead they moved away, forced out by their own greed and eons of short-sightedness. It seemed amazing that they could be short-sited for eons, but somehow they accomplished it. They destroyed their world, and then they left, presumably to find a new world to destroy.

The New World couldn’t possibly be prepared for what was about to happen, this approaching crowd of destruction that would soon overwhelm it, and The Old World felt sorry for it, but only a little. Really The Old World was glad to be done with the people, the scourge that had plagued it for far too long. It hoped the people would never come back, but hoping wasn’t enough, no, not with these people. They were too determined, they were too destructive. The Old World knew it needed to do more. Even though it was ravaged, virtually uninhabitable, the people may still return, especially as time marched on and the damage healed, they may come back to hurt it again.

The Old World knew it needed to protect itself, but how? After all, it was a planet, governed by the rules of the universe; it did not have a lot of options here. The only choice was to use the little resources it had left, those the people did not destroy. So it continued to spin, and it continued to orbit, and it continued to encourage the little life that was left to grow. Yes, the blackberry bushes, one of the hardiest plants The Old World had fostered, one even the people had not managed to eradicate, started to grow. They spread out their spikey tendrils over crumbling buildings and toxic soil, slowly reclaiming all the traces of the people. Their progress was almost unnoticeable at first, after all, the environment that was left was not really habitable for anything, but they were survivors, and they managed. They dug their roots deep underground, much deeper than their ancestors had, and they found the little water that was left, and they grew and grew. Time marched on, and bit by bit The Old World was transformed. Even from space it was noticeable, no longer the brown dusty orb the people had left, now it was green, resembling something fuzzy and soft, but The Old World was secure in the knowledge that if any of the people were to come back, they would find not the fuzzy ball that appeared from space, but instead the spiky, angry, protective berry bushes that held The Old World tight in a comforting embrace.

Fort Awsome

She loved her house, perched on the bluff at the very edge of the little island in San Francisco Bay. From here she could just make out the Golden Gate, which had saved them so many years ago before releasing them back out to the ocean on an adventure she would never forget. She loved to sit on her deck on sunny afternoons with a cup of tea warming her hands and the breeze dancing in her hair while day dreaming about that amazing journey. The remote islands they visited with their sandy beaches and swaying palm trees, hikes up volcanoes, snorkeling in remote reefs, and gathering driftwood and shells from tiny atolls, some of which made it all the way home with her and now adorned her backyard.

They hadn’t wanted the adventure to end, but the money ran out right around the time she discovered she was pregnant. At least the decision on where to settle down was easy. They found this perfect house, with its amazing view; they knew it was meant to be. With their experience sailing half way around the world landing jobs on the water in their new home proved easy. She taught sailing to would be adventurers; he captained a pilot boat out of the Port of Oakland. Their son was born a short time later, and life seemed perfect, until the day it all came crashing down.

It was a stormy afternoon much like the one that originally ushered them into this bay so many years ago, when she received the phone call. There had been an accident, her husband had gone overboard, the Coast Guard was searching, but the seas were so big and the storm was so violent. She knew he was gone, she could feel it in her heart, after trying so hard all of those years ago, the sea had finally claimed him. For a while after the accident she took her infant son to that bench with the inscription that had inspired her to go on their original voyage. She would sit, and cradle their boy, while she stared out across the bay with tears streaming down her face. Eventually, though, time moved on, her son started talking, then walking, and they took those long drives out to the bench less and less, until they no longer went at all.

One afternoon she was sitting in her backyard staring out at the bridge while her son ran around  collecting driftwood. He grabbed a piece she had brought back from Vanuatu, “Mom, can I use this one?”

“Sure hon.”

He took it and ran out the back gate to the bluff. She stood and followed him, and saw the driftwood pile he was building on the shore. A sign leaned against one side, “Fort Awsome” written on it in red paint. She grabbed a pen from the house, turned the sign over, and wrote in tiny letters on the back.

“For My Love, Whose Heart Belongs At Sea”

Memorial Bench

Anne and Drew spent the night at anchor in Richardson Bay. They were so exhausted from fighting the storm out on the ocean that they did not even notice the beautiful view of Sausalito they had from their cockpit. The second their anchor was safely dug in they retreated to their cabin and slept. The next morning when they awoke they were starving, having not eaten since breakfast the prior day. Their galley was in shambles from the violent ocean, so they decided to treat themselves with a good hearty meal ashore. Besides, they both really wanted to get off the boat.

As Anne stepped on the dock she nearly burst into tears. There were times yesterday when she thought she would never touch land again. She made her way on wobbly legs to a nearby bench. After being at sea it seemed to take her awhile to reacclimatize to the ground NOT moving underneath her feet.

Before breakfast Drew wanted to check with the harbor master about a transient slip for their boat so they could assess the damage and make repairs. The headsail was shredded from being dragged overboard and would need to be replaced, and who knew what else was broken. Anne didn’t want to deal with anything boat related right now, she decided to wait on the bench for Drew.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be too long, she thought, as her stomach growled and complained while she sat, staring out across the bay to their little boat bobbing peacefully at anchor. Soon her thoughts became preoccupied with the storm they had dealt with the day before. She had been so frightened, and their situation had seemed so dire, but she had not had time to dwell on it while they were in the midst of fighting for their lives. Now that she was safe, though, all that emotion came flooding in. Tears streamed down her face as she wondered how she could possibly break it to Drew that she did not want to do this anymore, could not do this anymore. Sailing was just too dangerous, she thought, despite all those years of dreaming about this adventure of traveling the world on their boat, now that the reality was here she knew it was not for her. How would he take it? They had sacrificed everything, their jobs, their home, their savings, for this voyage, and now, just a bit more than a week into it, they would have to give up and return to Portland defeated. As she worried about what to do she noticed something out of the corner of her eye, an inscription on the bench where she was sitting. 

“For My Love, Whose Heart Belongs At Sea”

Anne wiped the tears from her face and stood as Drew approached. “Hey”, she said with resolve “let’s hurry up and get that breakfast, we have a lot of work to do on the boat today if we’re going to get back out there anytime soon.”

Behind the Gate

As they sailed out of the Columbia River, past the little towns they had often visited to escape from the city, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of adventure. Sure, they had only been at this for a year, most of which was spent fixing up the boat to make it comfortable for a long voyage, rather than perfecting their sailing skills, but they thought this would be a good test of their abilities. It was well know that the Columbia River, where it met the ocean, was one of the most difficult areas to sail. They figured if they could make it through there, they could sail anywhere. What they hadn’t taken into consideration is how the difficulty level changes based on the conditions. The day they had chosen was so calm that they had to turn on their old diesel motor to give them enough power to make any sort of forward progress. It was hardly a test of their sailing capabilities.

The first few days out on the ocean were a bit challenging, but beautiful. Their 28 foot boat was a little small for the ocean swell, but they soon settled into the rhythm as they made their way down the coast. They rose at the crack of dawn daily and pulled anchor, setting off with their ever chugging diesel engine and sails flopping in the light breeze until they reached the next cove at dusk and tucked in for another night aboard. That all changed on the sixth day of their journey. It had started out as beautiful and calm as each day before it, however, around noon, the sky suddenly darkened as a wall of charcoal grey clouds swept across. Next came the wind, whipping around them, seemingly from all directions at once. They quickly dropped their sails, the jib flopping overboard and dragging behind them in the water, as the ocean churned, getting angrier by the minute. It was too dangerous to run to the foredeck now to do anything about it. They clung on to the tiller and lifelines in the cockpit, knuckles white, holding on for dear life as the ocean broke over them again and again, soaking them to the bone, ripping the dragging headsail to shreds.

They didn’t know how long the storm had been raging; they just kept hanging on, hoping for the best, expecting the worst, and questioning why they had ever decided to undertake this journey. Then, like a mirage, they saw something glowing in the distance, the sun, breaking through the dark clouds on the horizon, drawing them towards a red beacon on the water. They grabbed the tiller and, fighting the waves, pointed the bow of their boat to the light in the distance.

They sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge just as dusk gave way to night. Outside in the ocean, the storm was raging on, but behind that Golden Gate the Bay was calm, and they knew they would be alright.

Found on the Street

Annie’s mom went straight to the bathroom and locked the door after they returned from the park. She had told Annie to play quietly in her room until she was finished, but Annie could not stop thinking about that poster she saw on the telephone pole on the walk home. On it was a picture of a stuffed bunny, and a whole bunch of words she couldn’t read, except one, “LOST”.  That poor bunny, Annie thought, someone has to find it. She knew she could do it, she was always finding treasures that were dropped in the street, like marbles, and match box cars, and once even a dollar bill! She figured that was where she would find the bunny too.

Annie tip toed to the bathroom and pressed her ear to the door. From the sound of things Mom would probably be in there awhile, now was the perfect time to go out and look for that bunny. Quietly she walked down stairs, grabbed the small step stool from the kitchen she used to reach the counter when she helped Mom cook, and took it to the front door. Standing on the stool she was able to stretch just high enough to unlock the door, and out in the neighborhood she ventured to rescue that poor lost bunny. She did not make it far before a nice man in a big white van, which looked a lot like the ice cream truck, pulled up next to her and offered to help her look.

Suze had been at the park with Annie when she got the phone call she had been dreading, the divorce was final. She could not deal with this in the middle of the park so she took Annie by the hand and hurried her home. Suze was on the verge of tears when she crossed the threshold, she didn’t want Annie to see her like this, so she told her to go play quietly in her room. Then she rushed into the bathroom and locked the door so she could cry in peace. A bit later, after splashing water on her face to try and remove some of the puffy redness, she emerged. The first thing she noticed was how quite it was in the house. She poked her head in Annie’s room, but it was empty. What could she be doing, Suze wondered, as she walked down stairs and into the living room. That’s when she spotted the stool, sitting by the front door that had been left ajar. Suze ran to the door and flung it open all the way, screaming Annie’s name, but the street was empty.

Suze approached the telephone pole with a stack of posters in her hands. She glanced down at her daughter’s smiling face, and then quickly looked away, tears welling up in her eyes. She held a poster to the pole, covering up some disintegrating flyer with a stuffed bunny on it, and stapled it firmly in place.

The New Neighbors

The Secret Smokers are outside again, huddled on their porch like normal. They moved in two years ago, these new neighbors, with their toddler, a sweet little girl. They showed no signs of being smokers then, Mrs. New Neighbor was actually quite pregnant at the time. Not long after they were settled, a balloon appeared in their yard announcing the arrival of a baby boy. That balloon stayed there for months, shriveling and deflating until, one day, it was gone. Soon after I noticed the New Neighbors huddled on their front porch smoking cigarettes, hiding from their kids. They became the Secret Smokers. Eventually Creepy Uncle joined them. About a year ago he had moved in with the family that had long lived in the big green Victorian next door. He could often be found on the front porch smoking his vape pen, but when Secret Smokers started secret smoking, it didn’t take long for Creepy Uncle to ensconce himself in their routine, ditching the vape for the real thing. And so Secret Smokers and Creepy Uncle became part of the normal pattern of the neighborhood.

I wave to Secret Smokers as I cruise down my driveway on my bike. I love riding to work; it gives my mind time to sleepily drift over the bayside landscape while I come to terms with being awake. The only problem is the wind on my ride home, and how difficult it makes it to talk on the phone.

Ever since I started my post-college career, I have been calling my Mom on my commute home. At first it was out of sheer boredom (though don’t tell her that), the 45 minute drive from my first job was monotonous and talking to Mom gave me something to do. Plus she was always excited to speak with me. These drive time chats became something I really looked forward to. But then I got the job closer to home and I started riding my bike. I soon learned that the wind created a static that was impossible to talk over. It was ever present, butting into the conversation intermittently, without courtesy, cutting our discussions short. I really missed the long talks we used to have, but not the accompanying long commute.

So here I was, another evening astride my Schwinn, beating into the wind down the shoreline path. I called my Mom as usual, but my Dad answered. “I have bad news, your mom has had a diagnosis… she has cancer”. That was all he said, that was all he knew. Mom was resting and couldn’t come to the phone, but we would speak tomorrow, after the appointment with the oncologist, when there was more information.

I rode the rest of the way home in shock.

My mom would die.

There would be no more phone calls.

The world would change.

I turned the corner to my street, Secret Smokers were outside again, huddled on their porch like normal, but for me, everything was different.

Spider in the Shower

“Oh shit” Sarah yelled “fuck, fuck, NO” her eyes scanned the bathroom wildly. “Frankie, where are you, Frankie?!” her voice growing more panicked by the second. Then she spotted him, at the bottom of the bathtub, completely submerged under the water. “Oh my god, hold on, hold on” she quickly shut off the tap and reached into the tub, carefully grabbing his small, delicate body. He was limp. She yanked the shower curtain to one side, and gently laid him over the edge of the tub. “Please be okay Frankie” she whispered, near tears, she stood over him, unsure what to do next. Kneeling down next to him she watched him lying there, so still. Then suddenly she remembered, Annie! She shot back up looking frantically for her. Thank goodness, there she was cowering in the corner! “Oh Annie” Sarah said gently, trying to mask the shaking of her voice “it’s okay, I know, Frankie will be okay, you just stay there, your safe there, I will take care of him.”

Sarah turned her attention back to Frankie’s motionless body, still lying draped over the side of the tub. She knelt down again and lifted her hand to gently caress him while singing softly under her breath.  She felt like she was crouched there for hours, though really it had only been a few minutes, when she heard a voice calling out to her, breaking through her trance.

“Sarah, Sarah, SARAH” the voice bellowed, “Sarah, are you okay?” It was her husband.

She heard his footsteps coming down the hall.

“Sarah, hello? I heard the water stop running and then I thought I heard yelling. Is everything all right? Do you need help?” he called, with worry in his voice. His footsteps were drawing closer.

Sarah snapped to attention, standing up quickly she replied, “yes, yes, everything is fine in here.” She couldn’t let him see what had happened. She grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the back of the toilet and gently reached down and scooped up Frankie’s body. She checked one last time, but no, Frankie was definitely gone. Carefully she folded up the Kleenex, dropped it in the toilet, and flushed. A tear rolled down her cheek and joined the swirl of water in the bowl. She turned back to Annie, still cowering in the corner of the shower. “I’m so sorry Annie; there was nothing else I could do.”

“What did you say, who are you talking to in there?” Her husband asked. He was right on the other side of the bathroom door now.

“Nothing, dear, “Sarah replied calmly.

“Okay, I thought you might have been talking to those damn spiders again. When are you going to clean up those webs anyway, it’s unsanitary!”

“I don’t know” Sarah said softly, and after making sure Annie was still safely perched in her web in the corner of the room, Sarah turned the water back on, and stepped in the tub to finish her shower.

That Ain't Right

Suddenly my eyes were open and struggling to focus in the dark room. In the doorway, a figure, a series of lines fuzzy in the blackness start to form into a recognizable… but no, it’s just 2 am playing tricks on me again. I have been waking up at 2 am every night for months, maybe longer, time’s running together like one giant… ugh, I’m too tired to finish that analogy. Once, after I noticed the pattern, I Googled, “Why do I wake up at 2 am?!?!” All search results pointed to the same thing. Some “ancient wisdom” that says consistently waking up in the middle of the night is directly connected to a problem within. Apparently the 2 am hour relates to alcohol consumption, as in too much. Yeah right, like a glass or two of wine every night, or half a bottle, or a full bottle, or whatever, is a problem. But it just keeps happening, every night, eyes open, red numbers on the clock come into focus, 2 AM. And I begin to dwell on it. In fact it really starts to bug me. It’s not the only reason why I decided to stop drinking for a bit, I mean, there are other consequences of too much alcohol consumption, like weight gain. After all, it was alcohol that was the major contributing factor to the freshman 40 I put on my first year in college. And I know, I know, the phrase is freshman 15, but when you drink a lot of beer and sleep through most of your classes, well, let’s just say, gaining weight was the only thing I excelled at that year.

So yeah, I decided to quit the drinking for a bit, see if I could finally lose that weight, and maybe, finally sleep through the night. And I did shed all those pounds, three months after I stopped boozing it up I was back to my pre-college weight, but I was still waking up at 2 am, every single fucking night. So I did what any sane person would, and I installed a camera in my room. I figured there must be something waking me up, it was just too weird. I figured, perhaps, one of the cats, or the dog, or something like that? I don’t know. The morning after I installed it I was super excited to view the footage. Oh yes, I woke up at 2 am, as usual, but decided to go back to sleep and wait until a more normal morning hour to watch it. At 6 am I could wait no longer and popped the tape into my VCR. I leaned forward, anticipating one of my fuzzy little beasts to appear in the frame at any moment, but instead I saw the real culprit, my husband, my fucking husband. Every night he was setting his alarm for 2 am, waking up, and poking me until I stirred, then he pretended to be asleep. WHAT THE FUCK!?