Today was a good day for me.
This morning I got up on time even though I didn't set my clock (in a passive-aggressive attempt to shirk my responsibilities of the day). I almost went back to bed, which I would have regretted when I woke up the second time, but for some reason I decided not to. I still don't know what was different about this morning than every other morning that I've woken up and talked my half-asleep brain out of doing what I need to; I wish I did, so I could duplicate it in the future.
I spent the entire day in service with four of the nicest ladies -- two Spanish-speaking and two Deaf. We spent most of the time searching for Deaf people in our territory, but the day ended with L--- and me going to a nursing care facility to hold a bible study with a quadriplegic Deaf woman (S---) who was unable to move her fingers or lift her arms to sign to us.
I was touched to the point of tears at L---'s patience in trying to understand a request from this poor woman. L---, being Deaf herself, certainly relates the frustration that S--- must feel, a thousand-fold, with being unable to make herself understood. We spent half an hour trying to understand what S--- was asking us to do, and went away never having understood it. The whole experience made me appreciate my blessings and also recognize my flaws; I don't have a fraction of the selfless patience that L--- showed, or that S--- showed when we failed, again and again, to understand her.
The best part of the whole experience, though, was the reason for L-_-'s visit: to teach S--- about prayer. How to pray, what to pray about, and most importantly, that prayer is both necessary and healing.
All people pray, even those who claim not to believe in God (just put
them in the right circumstance and they're willing to test out prayer on
the off chance it might help). But many people -- even those with no
doubt as to God's existence -- feel surprisingly awkward when it comes
to actually developing a habit of talking to God through prayer. It
makes sense to me; if you don't hear an answer back, and you aren't too
sure you fully understand who you're talking to, and if nobody has ever
really taught you how to do this seemingly-awkward thing, you might feel
like it's better to save it for emergencies, when looking or feeling
foolish is less important than, say, saving your skin. But when you move past the awkwardness, it becomes what it was meant to be: the sensation of never being all alone in the world, no matter where you are or what happens in your life.
So here is this woman, all alone most of the time in a bed she can't move from, surrounded by people she can't communicate with, and here comes L---, offering the notion of having someone she can pour her heart out to day and night, that she is never truly alone. It's one thing to believe in God, but it's quite another to feel that he is so close that you can speak to him at any time. For those of us who believe that, it's enough to bring you to tears just thinking about it. For someone to whom the idea is fairly new, it's...a feeling of wonder, maybe? Thinking back to that revelation for me, I would have to say that it felt like an enormous weight had lifted from my entire being. I know, that sounds hokey, but it's the truth, so there you go.
So, I got up on time to fulfill my obligations, I shared this beautiful moment with L--- and S---, and then, I mounted my bike on my car, drove to M---'s house, and we rode around for a bit, stopping and 5 & Diner for dinner. I felt strong, better than I did the last time, able to keep up and not take any breaks from the ride. In short, it was a good evening.
I felt accomplished today. Proud of myself. The peace of knowing I did what I was supposed to do was buoying, and the pleasure of physical exercise was invigorating. It was a good day. The only dark mark on today is the twinge of guilt I feel at having a good day when you have no days at all; it feels selfish. Next time maybe I will be able to enjoy it all without the guilt; we'll see.
<3
Monday, October 31, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
It's All Greek to Me
Today somebody said that: "It's all Greek to me." I giggled and told her that I can't say that anymore, because that would mean I understand it at least a little bit. A very little bit; it seems like there are new grammar rules in play that I have not encountered before. Definitely the three genders thing (English has only a few nominally-gendered words and Spanish has two genders). And something about the changing of nouns based on the verb that I haven't quite caught on to yet. I'm sure it will be explained at some point, but my brain likes rules to organize these ideas and I am not getting any spelled out for me (and it's a little uncomfortable).
I wish you were learning Greek with me. Wouldn't it be fun to go through the lessons together? You would have laughed your face off at the 'you don't understand Greek' lesson. I don't know, maybe I would have gotten on your nerves with how picky I am bout the rules once I understand them. But I think it would have been fun. I found your file on your computer with the Greek notes you had taken; you were really into it. I wish you could have finished. <3
I wish you were learning Greek with me. Wouldn't it be fun to go through the lessons together? You would have laughed your face off at the 'you don't understand Greek' lesson. I don't know, maybe I would have gotten on your nerves with how picky I am bout the rules once I understand them. But I think it would have been fun. I found your file on your computer with the Greek notes you had taken; you were really into it. I wish you could have finished. <3
Monday, October 24, 2011
Old People
I just want to call you and ask you how you are, to catch you up on my life and maybe bug you a little to quit smoking/clean up/get back in school/take care of your health/whatever else I see that needs fixing, because that is what sisters do.
But I can't call you anymore. I can never call you again.
I keep thinking about old people. They talk about families that are mostly dead, siblings they outlive by decades, even, people who died before color television was invented. I remember being struck by the tears in one octogenarian's eyes when she talked about her brother who died young of a disease we cure with penicillin nowadays; I felt sad for her, but I didn't really understand how someone who had disappeared from her life so many decades ago could still be painful to think about.
Now I think about myself at eighty, telling some other young kid who doesn't get it about my brother who died fifty years ago when we had to fight cancer with radiation and chemo and too many people lost the battle. And I know that kid will be fixated on what life must have been like, back in my day, and maybe a little uncomfortable with the tears in my eyes as I remember my brother who died way too young. They won't get it, either.
I get it. Fifty years from now, I will probably still get the urge to pick up the phone and call you, and it will still take my breath away a little when I remind myself for the billionth time that a phone is not powerful enough to cross the line that's between us now.
But I can't call you anymore. I can never call you again.
I keep thinking about old people. They talk about families that are mostly dead, siblings they outlive by decades, even, people who died before color television was invented. I remember being struck by the tears in one octogenarian's eyes when she talked about her brother who died young of a disease we cure with penicillin nowadays; I felt sad for her, but I didn't really understand how someone who had disappeared from her life so many decades ago could still be painful to think about.
Now I think about myself at eighty, telling some other young kid who doesn't get it about my brother who died fifty years ago when we had to fight cancer with radiation and chemo and too many people lost the battle. And I know that kid will be fixated on what life must have been like, back in my day, and maybe a little uncomfortable with the tears in my eyes as I remember my brother who died way too young. They won't get it, either.
I get it. Fifty years from now, I will probably still get the urge to pick up the phone and call you, and it will still take my breath away a little when I remind myself for the billionth time that a phone is not powerful enough to cross the line that's between us now.
Funny Stuff
Pimsleur Greek, Level 1 Unit 9, is basically a long example of how to reject a clueless guy. It goes something like this:
"Miss would you like to have a drink with me?"
"That's ma'am, and no I don't want to."
"What time would you like to have a drink with me? At one?"
"No, I don't want to."
"At eight?"
"No, thank you."
"At...nine? At the hotel?"
"No, sir, I don't want to."
"Or at two, at the restaurant?"
"No. Not at the restaurant."
"Oh, I understand! You don't want to have a drink with me."
"Yes, you understand. I don't want to."
"Ok, but do you want to have lunch with me?"
"No."
"At the restaurant or at the hotel? At eight or at nine?"
"No, sir. Not at the restaurant, not at the hotel, not at one or two or eight or nine. You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"Greek!!"
Hahahahaha. Literally, that was the lesson. There were some other things thrown in, but that was the gist of it. I was having a hard time remembering to answer in Greek because I was busy waiting for, "If you don't go away right now I'm calling the cops."
Best. Greek. Lesson. EVAR. Wish you could laugh with me about it. <3
"Miss would you like to have a drink with me?"
"That's ma'am, and no I don't want to."
"What time would you like to have a drink with me? At one?"
"No, I don't want to."
"At eight?"
"No, thank you."
"At...nine? At the hotel?"
"No, sir, I don't want to."
"Or at two, at the restaurant?"
"No. Not at the restaurant."
"Oh, I understand! You don't want to have a drink with me."
"Yes, you understand. I don't want to."
"Ok, but do you want to have lunch with me?"
"No."
"At the restaurant or at the hotel? At eight or at nine?"
"No, sir. Not at the restaurant, not at the hotel, not at one or two or eight or nine. You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"Greek!!"
Hahahahaha. Literally, that was the lesson. There were some other things thrown in, but that was the gist of it. I was having a hard time remembering to answer in Greek because I was busy waiting for, "If you don't go away right now I'm calling the cops."
Best. Greek. Lesson. EVAR. Wish you could laugh with me about it. <3
Thursday, October 20, 2011
That Crazy Thing I Keep Doing
Today I was feeling sorry for myself because I am short and fat and some things are hard to do when one is short and fat. And I thought that maybe being short and fat would indirectly lead to losing a job I am doing, a job I happen to enjoy both for the challenge and for the atmosphere. And I worried myself into a stomach ache, and maybe grew a little ulcer in my aching stomach, and then all of the worry was suddenly washed away by a few words of praise from someone who, incidentally, reminds me very much of you. And I thought what a silly thing it was to worry about, that being short and fat and a little slower than a gym bunny does not invalidate how good I am at my job, and I could practically hear you in my ear chiding me to give myself a little more credit. And I missed you so much and I wished I could call you to tell you that I was feeling insecure so that you could tell me to shut up and be the strong woman we all know I am. And I still miss you.
Today I told M--- about that crazy thing I keep doing. It was an accident, telling her; she had my phone because I was showing her the picture of ducks I took this morning (no less that 25 beautiful green and grey Mallards leading the way through the parking lot!). And she started flicking through the photos, past the butterfly/moth hybrid I found yesterday (who stubbornly refused to open his wings so I could capture the full glory and curiousness of his existence). And then I realized she was about to land on that picture, the one that twists my gut in knots of sick anticipation, the one I cannot look away from once I land there, and I had to warn her to stop. And I could think of no clever excuse, and anyway, my cleverness is more like blurting, and so I blurted.
She looked dismayed -- that is the best word for her facial expression: dismay. So I fumbled to explain, but there really are no good words to make her understand how I need that photographic evidence, how it anchors me to this path of grief that every cell in my body is rising up against. Every trick my mind can think to play on me, to convince me that it was all a dream, a hoax, a terrible misunderstanding, is waylaid by that single image. I need to see it, because if I don't I will never believe it, and if I never believe it I will never let go of this heaviness in the core of my being. For the mind has a million tricks and machinations, but the body is not fooled. The body holds every sadness in a knot at its center, waiting for the mind to acknowledge and unravel it. When I look at your eyes, they might almost be sleeping, and each time I feel a tiny thread untangle and drift away from me. It is crazy to do this, it causes dismay in the minds of those who do not understand, but it is as necessary as breathing, so I will not stop until I find a different way to breathe.
Today I told M--- about that crazy thing I keep doing. It was an accident, telling her; she had my phone because I was showing her the picture of ducks I took this morning (no less that 25 beautiful green and grey Mallards leading the way through the parking lot!). And she started flicking through the photos, past the butterfly/moth hybrid I found yesterday (who stubbornly refused to open his wings so I could capture the full glory and curiousness of his existence). And then I realized she was about to land on that picture, the one that twists my gut in knots of sick anticipation, the one I cannot look away from once I land there, and I had to warn her to stop. And I could think of no clever excuse, and anyway, my cleverness is more like blurting, and so I blurted.
She looked dismayed -- that is the best word for her facial expression: dismay. So I fumbled to explain, but there really are no good words to make her understand how I need that photographic evidence, how it anchors me to this path of grief that every cell in my body is rising up against. Every trick my mind can think to play on me, to convince me that it was all a dream, a hoax, a terrible misunderstanding, is waylaid by that single image. I need to see it, because if I don't I will never believe it, and if I never believe it I will never let go of this heaviness in the core of my being. For the mind has a million tricks and machinations, but the body is not fooled. The body holds every sadness in a knot at its center, waiting for the mind to acknowledge and unravel it. When I look at your eyes, they might almost be sleeping, and each time I feel a tiny thread untangle and drift away from me. It is crazy to do this, it causes dismay in the minds of those who do not understand, but it is as necessary as breathing, so I will not stop until I find a different way to breathe.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Some Days
Some days it's like a twinge,
an unsettled thought tapping gently
at the back of a harried mind,
a feeling of slight misalignment
that I wear like two different-sized shoes.
Some days it's an iron fist slamming into my brain,
shoving all other thoughts out and
crashing into the back of my skull over and over
until I feel it start to crack.
Some days it's almost tranquil,
a soft, blue-tinted whisper on the edge of a dream,
and the only thing that holds me back from
settling into that sweet sleep is guilt
at finding any semblance of peace so soon.
Some days it's everything all tossed in together
like one of my mother's stews:
nothing I want, but it's all there is.
Some days I can handle the stew.
Some days I can walk for miles.
Some days I remember to breathe.
an unsettled thought tapping gently
at the back of a harried mind,
a feeling of slight misalignment
that I wear like two different-sized shoes.
Some days it's an iron fist slamming into my brain,
shoving all other thoughts out and
crashing into the back of my skull over and over
until I feel it start to crack.
Some days it's almost tranquil,
a soft, blue-tinted whisper on the edge of a dream,
and the only thing that holds me back from
settling into that sweet sleep is guilt
at finding any semblance of peace so soon.
Some days it's everything all tossed in together
like one of my mother's stews:
nothing I want, but it's all there is.
Some days I can handle the stew.
Some days I can walk for miles.
Some days I remember to breathe.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
You would love
this place. Maybe not the uniforms, but the rest would thrill you. I wish I could tell you all the funny stories.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Εγω δεν καταλαβαινο
Δεν μιλαω ΕΛΛΥΝΙΚΑ καλα αλλα θα 'ηθελα να στον αδερφό μου: Σ' ΑΓΑΠ'Ω. Μαθαίνω Ελληνικά για εσάς.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Learning Greek
I've been devoting a lot of serious effort to learning Greek recently, in preparation for my upcoming journey to lay a part of you to rest there. On the one hand, I am a polyglot and a linguaphile and I would embrace the opportunity to learn any language where the opportunity and practical rationale presented themselves. But on the other hand, I can't help but fixate on the reality that Greek was nowhere on my radar before you vanished from my life.
I had recently purchased materials to begin learning Japanese, I had seriously considered enrolling in a Mandarin class, I had been playing with Arabic in microscopic increments, and of course, the Romance languages are still in my queue (Spanish down, French the most likely next contender). But neither Greece nor Greek had captured my attention in any serious manner.
And then suddenly the earth tilted. Suddenly a star burned out. Suddenly plans made were mocked and my Japanese program fell into a bin with all of my other imaginings and began to gather dust, and I found myself seeking the best format for mastering (or at least making peace with) Ελληνικα.
I think my pronunciation is okay. My recall seems to be good (except I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to say 'hello' no matter how many times that mild-mannered Pimsleur coach repeats it). I'm not having any trouble so far with the prescribed methods for absorbing this language. But this experience is different than all other language learning adventures I have embarked on in the past.
I lack the enthusiasm I've had in past linguistic endeavors. Whereas my mastery of a new skill in ASL or Spanish or Arabic was always tinged with excitement and pride, in Greek, it is simply a fact. I feel numb to this experience; it is a practical undertaking. I don't wish to be in Greece with no ability to communicate basic needs, and so I am committed to learning as much as I can before I go. But I don't feel the joy that I should as a linguaphile. I don't feel the wonder of exploration I should, the curiosity surrounding points of grammar and shades of meaning. I am just putting on the language like a raincoat with no adornment, as though it were a simple garment with an exclusively utilitarian existence.
And I know why. Because if the world were as I wished it, I would not be learning Greek at all. Perhaps, some years down the road, if you had married your sweet I--, I might have found a reason to learn Greek. Perhaps you would have moved to Greece, or her mother would have moved with her to America, and I would need Greek to communicate with my extended family. Perhaps I simply would have been exposed to it and chosen to learn it simply because it caught my fancy. But surely I would be doing so with you, and not in your stead. And since I am not doing so for the sake of sharing life experiences with you, but as a way to honor you in death, I am finding the joy difficult to create.
I asked my friend M-- to learn with me. I am giving her copies of my materials and hoping that having a partner for whom there is no such sadness will help me discover the joy I know I should be feeling. She shares my enthusiasm for languages and for learning; perhaps she can show me the light. I hope so, because learning is never optimal in darkness, and I have this work to do.
I had recently purchased materials to begin learning Japanese, I had seriously considered enrolling in a Mandarin class, I had been playing with Arabic in microscopic increments, and of course, the Romance languages are still in my queue (Spanish down, French the most likely next contender). But neither Greece nor Greek had captured my attention in any serious manner.
And then suddenly the earth tilted. Suddenly a star burned out. Suddenly plans made were mocked and my Japanese program fell into a bin with all of my other imaginings and began to gather dust, and I found myself seeking the best format for mastering (or at least making peace with) Ελληνικα.
I think my pronunciation is okay. My recall seems to be good (except I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to say 'hello' no matter how many times that mild-mannered Pimsleur coach repeats it). I'm not having any trouble so far with the prescribed methods for absorbing this language. But this experience is different than all other language learning adventures I have embarked on in the past.
I lack the enthusiasm I've had in past linguistic endeavors. Whereas my mastery of a new skill in ASL or Spanish or Arabic was always tinged with excitement and pride, in Greek, it is simply a fact. I feel numb to this experience; it is a practical undertaking. I don't wish to be in Greece with no ability to communicate basic needs, and so I am committed to learning as much as I can before I go. But I don't feel the joy that I should as a linguaphile. I don't feel the wonder of exploration I should, the curiosity surrounding points of grammar and shades of meaning. I am just putting on the language like a raincoat with no adornment, as though it were a simple garment with an exclusively utilitarian existence.
And I know why. Because if the world were as I wished it, I would not be learning Greek at all. Perhaps, some years down the road, if you had married your sweet I--, I might have found a reason to learn Greek. Perhaps you would have moved to Greece, or her mother would have moved with her to America, and I would need Greek to communicate with my extended family. Perhaps I simply would have been exposed to it and chosen to learn it simply because it caught my fancy. But surely I would be doing so with you, and not in your stead. And since I am not doing so for the sake of sharing life experiences with you, but as a way to honor you in death, I am finding the joy difficult to create.
I asked my friend M-- to learn with me. I am giving her copies of my materials and hoping that having a partner for whom there is no such sadness will help me discover the joy I know I should be feeling. She shares my enthusiasm for languages and for learning; perhaps she can show me the light. I hope so, because learning is never optimal in darkness, and I have this work to do.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Starbucks and laptops
My unofficial poll of Starbucks wifi users comes in at 9 to 2 in favor of MacBooks. I'm not sure if that means the Macs are too cheap to spring for their own mobile hotspots or that Mac is overtaking PC in portable popularity. I know you would be annoyed with that observation, though.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Its not that I forget,
It's just that I keep myself busy so I won't remember. But then I pass by you in your corner and my heart skips a beat or two. Then I shuffle through my pictures and you flash across the screen and I forget to take a breath or two. And it's not the pictures on my desktop or my home screen that compel me to pause. It's the one, that one, the one I can't pass quickly by but in fear of which my heart races every time I know it's coming up. There is nothing inherently frightening in those salmon-colored pixels, no, the look is so serene that it might be sleep to an uninitiated observer. But the leap my heart takes against the back of my chest is a recoil: a race against reality, rebellion at the reminder. Proof that sinks into me over and over again, and yet, knowing it approaches, I cannot tear my eyes away. It's not that I forget, it's just that being busy make memory seem more distant, less heavy.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Crimnal Minds
I've been watching Criminal Minds lately. It's horrific story after horrific story about how depraved human beings can be; some episodes are based on actual serial killers and some are dreamed up in the minds of people who are actually being paid to think like sociopaths might.
As a writer, I am both enthralled and repulsed by the relationship the show's writers have to the material. On the one hand, I am not an ex-CIA agent with a tragic past that drove me to murder-for-hire, but I have no problem delving into the mind of Sidrah Samuels deeply enough to write her character convincingly. On the other hand, while I don't share her history, I do share some of her propensity for dark thoughts and wallowing, and a nagging voice in my head begs the question of whether, under the exact same pressures that Sid faces, I would not react as she does. So I have to wonder how idle these clearly-elaborate thoughts of sadistic torture really are in the minds of these writers. Purely a creative outlet? Where is that line? Where is my line? I wonder a lot of things, and this is on my list.
I have so many squirrels...
The point of this post was simply to comment that I find the drama in the episode I am currently watching unrelatable and obnoxious. ***SERIOUS SPOILERS AHEAD*** In S07E01, 'It Takes A Village', the BAU team learns that Emily Prentiss did not actually die last season, as they had all been led to believe. Her death was faked in order to save her life, and she was given a fake identity and whisked off to France. Of course, the show being what it is, eventually she is the only person who can solve a case (particularly, the very case that had her whisked off to Paris in the first place), and the bombshell lands on the team just before she walks in the room. Are they elated? Do they run to embrace her? Do they sigh with wonder and burst into relieved-but-incredulous-and-highly-confused tears? No. No they do not. They stare. And then they give a collective cold shoulder to her and to the two people who knew she was alive but protected her identity (to save her life, you recall).
What. The. Hell? Pardon my French, but I am seriously annoyed. Let me tell you, if I found out that my brother's death was an elaborate hoax designed and carried out by my wayward sibling himself with no other goal besides the wreaking of emotional trauma on his family, I would still be overjoyed to find out that he was actually not gone from this earth. I would run to him and throw my arms around him, and cry and jump for joy. Maybe later I would cuss him out and possibly punch him in the mouth for being such a jerk, but then I would get on with making up for lost time and consider it a privilege to have become so acutely aware of the regrets I would have at his death and then miraculously having the opportunity to rectify those regrets.
This show is making me angry tonight. Instead of pondering what it is about this show that makes it easier to miss my brother (I can't really explain it, other than the fact that he was not dissected by a psycopath, so there is something to be grateful for in the manner of his death, awful as it is), instead I will simply press stop. I will go to bed. And maybe I will write those writers a letter:
"Dear Writers,
Your premise is flawed. Please redo this episode the right way. I look forward to the corrections.
Sincerely,
A Perfectly Reasonable Fan
P.S. Please get Reid a girlfriend. She could be a super-genius, also; that would be interesting.
P.P.S. You really don't need to show the gore. No, really; it's getting out of hand."
I think that's all I have to say tonight.
<3
As a writer, I am both enthralled and repulsed by the relationship the show's writers have to the material. On the one hand, I am not an ex-CIA agent with a tragic past that drove me to murder-for-hire, but I have no problem delving into the mind of Sidrah Samuels deeply enough to write her character convincingly. On the other hand, while I don't share her history, I do share some of her propensity for dark thoughts and wallowing, and a nagging voice in my head begs the question of whether, under the exact same pressures that Sid faces, I would not react as she does. So I have to wonder how idle these clearly-elaborate thoughts of sadistic torture really are in the minds of these writers. Purely a creative outlet? Where is that line? Where is my line? I wonder a lot of things, and this is on my list.
I have so many squirrels...
The point of this post was simply to comment that I find the drama in the episode I am currently watching unrelatable and obnoxious. ***SERIOUS SPOILERS AHEAD*** In S07E01, 'It Takes A Village', the BAU team learns that Emily Prentiss did not actually die last season, as they had all been led to believe. Her death was faked in order to save her life, and she was given a fake identity and whisked off to France. Of course, the show being what it is, eventually she is the only person who can solve a case (particularly, the very case that had her whisked off to Paris in the first place), and the bombshell lands on the team just before she walks in the room. Are they elated? Do they run to embrace her? Do they sigh with wonder and burst into relieved-but-incredulous-and-highly-confused tears? No. No they do not. They stare. And then they give a collective cold shoulder to her and to the two people who knew she was alive but protected her identity (to save her life, you recall).
What. The. Hell? Pardon my French, but I am seriously annoyed. Let me tell you, if I found out that my brother's death was an elaborate hoax designed and carried out by my wayward sibling himself with no other goal besides the wreaking of emotional trauma on his family, I would still be overjoyed to find out that he was actually not gone from this earth. I would run to him and throw my arms around him, and cry and jump for joy. Maybe later I would cuss him out and possibly punch him in the mouth for being such a jerk, but then I would get on with making up for lost time and consider it a privilege to have become so acutely aware of the regrets I would have at his death and then miraculously having the opportunity to rectify those regrets.
This show is making me angry tonight. Instead of pondering what it is about this show that makes it easier to miss my brother (I can't really explain it, other than the fact that he was not dissected by a psycopath, so there is something to be grateful for in the manner of his death, awful as it is), instead I will simply press stop. I will go to bed. And maybe I will write those writers a letter:
"Dear Writers,
Your premise is flawed. Please redo this episode the right way. I look forward to the corrections.
Sincerely,
A Perfectly Reasonable Fan
P.S. Please get Reid a girlfriend. She could be a super-genius, also; that would be interesting.
P.P.S. You really don't need to show the gore. No, really; it's getting out of hand."
I think that's all I have to say tonight.
<3
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