The Good Life... a weblog about life, technology, and the Opera Web browser

Is eleven weeks old too early to teach a puppy french? My Dad thinks not. He plans on teaching our puppy to stop barking by saying Fermez la bouche, s'il vous pla

I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of my family: Mandy.

Mandy is an eleven week old pedigree Chocolate Lab (well, she'll be eleven weeks old tomorrow). She enjoys eating wood, tearing up innocent clumps of grass, and biting my scalp. Mandy is also quite good at biting ankles, yapping, and eating shoes. In other words, she's the typical puppy and a delight to have around (assuming you don't want to accomplish anything).

And she wears me out.

Recently in my Creative Writing course, we were told to write a one page paper using first person. Given the things I'd been reading recently, this is what I came up with:

WARNING: If you have problems with reading about people physical hurting themselves, DO NOT READ THIS.

It's hard to explain how it can feel good to cut. Maybe it just puts my mind on something else, away from the complication of life. It doesn't hurt. I take out my favorite razor; it's a straight edge. Light and seemingly insignificant, it cuts through my skin so easily. I have to clean it first. I can't cut without a clean razor. I lock myself in my room and pull down the old Nike shoebox from my closet. I have plenty of razors, but only one I use. Sam gave it to me long ago; he's the one that taught me to cut. He showed me how to hold the razor, taught me how important it is to keep my fingers steady and the razor perpendicular to the skin to prevent scarring. Poor precious Sam.

My razor's clean, my shirt's off, I'm ready. It's been so long since I cut. I thought I had it all together when I was with Chris. Then he had to break up with me. We talked tonight, that's why I'm doing this. I can love him better than anyone ever could, he just doesn't know it. I just have to make myself pretty. Oooohhh. One. I lied, it hurts. Two. It's worth the pain. Three. He'll know I'm pretty now. Four. Everyone will know I'm pretty now. Aaaah. Six. Can't let the blood get on my clothes; the 'rents will find out. Eight. They wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's like to be me. Fifteen. They have their own problems, anyway.

There, done. Twenty cuts. I hope that one doesn't scar. I already have enough scars. Fifty-five scars. I guess this makes fifty-six.

Now they'll see. Now they'll know that I'm P-R-E-T-T-Y. Twenty cuts to beauty, that wasn't so hard, was it?

I'm sorry, Brittany.

Too many people (as if one wasn't too many) I know cut themselves. I think in the last week I've found out two more of my friends do that. God, why do people have to hurt themselves like this?

Leslie over at the The Hoopla 500 talked about carrying on the other day. She's a Manhattan native and wonders why everyone is so impressed that she is just living her life after all that's happened. It's odd that some people find living life optional.