Yeah. I'm pretty awesome(:>

You & You & You...Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa...give me a smile, and I'll frown upon you, leave me alone, just run home, where the gin is waiting for your shaking fingers, the cool bottle consoles your aching hungers, thirsty for more than revenge…

Unknown to us all, you'd transform into the one thing you'd hate to love....most importantly you'll confuse and astound with your womanly wiles, and escape and enthrall with passions futile (pains) and arouse the chorus with a simple pose, (of posture.)

I'll fall to your feet, and wash them with my [faked] tears, you'll frown and entreat me, to a painful kick here, my heart in your hand, how fast did time pass? I am not a man, who believes in lies, more so I lie to you…

 I could've sworn, amidst all the wars, your long gilded hair, shaded black in despair, fulfilled the prophecy, of a woman too young to see, the ways of the world, from the viewpoint of a five-year-old.

Lisa, give me a hand, I'll keep you safe, if I were lying, we'd both be amazed.

The sinners’ church, is far more extravagant than a prince's birth, and lying here, underneath the stars, I take your neck in my mouth, and compare our scars.

Of water filled lullabies, tearing us apart, no use for grammar or even simple heart, (need,) all along, enthroned in alabaster, you were the queen.

Taken to poetry, the musical has been cancelled, the orchestra fired, the chandelier dismantled, an aura of kindle, a fire, a maze, in short simple terms, a con-tra-dict-o-ry gaze, astounded by diamonds, ambushed by coal, I stare, (unabashedly,) at your red (r/i/p/p/e/d) royal soul, kept in a jar, a jar filled with emotions, unused by all, all left unspoken.

Mona, (i) take your hand, is this your last request? Doomed to a life, filled with surgery and regret, chained to a wall, with a last hope to perfect, a blank diary, greets me, (my visage is), bandaged and broken, unknown to us all, i use this last resort, as a measure of trust, we walk the line, between roses and musk, there is no reason, i fall down this life, knowing very well what compromise (is) would ensue, i crawl, blind towards the light...[of your eyes.]

Mona Lisa, take this last impressive bow, the tragedy of romantic comedy, gone forever, the vile summary is missing vitality, the facts have all been sugar-coated, advertising companies swoop in with powder, and sable coats.

So unsure of yourself, your hair flows into the lakebed, strutted down your last runaway line, gutted with gusto and disgust evident in your noble eyes, take back the fast pace, give her back her (lovely) old face, i couldn't protect you, my iconic grief coincides with the sayings of a wise (one,) the sun is burning me, alone in a dead sky, broken like your latest jewelry de-sign,.

My mind reeling, i stumble, the storms winds' have pushed me into a better thinking position. There is no comfort believing in you, (my little one, my only one) my treasure-toy.

You've grown up, you can't keep living in this coal mine, keep running till you fit the princess's stereotype, and then dig in the dirt, for your last ruby ring, do not go (gently) into that spark of [last] light, (last night, fireflies danced and died, decayed and cried) let the foolish side take over your reasonable mind, let practicality take over your dormant frugality, buy the sun, buy everything until you're broke from the inside out (and just as dirty, slut.)

Lisa, you're pretty little head astounds me, even to this day...your sweetness makes my temperament look appalling, whisper I resent you. Never grow up is what she told you, oh she lied, isn’t life so much sweeter looking in from outside?

Why won’t you die? Your blood is fine, (ruby and) glistening, like fragile steel beams.

The telephone rings,…

 (and ) Leonardo ignores it so he can paint your brow, how lovely, it’s real.

Unlike the others of your time, you have lines, lines, lines, everywhere, …my line has disappeared, in this fast paced job, how can you overlook a weekend off? Too much, too much, too close, too close, too fast too fast (broken,dizzy,loving,crazy,slated,thirsting,jaded,bursting) I overdose on your private thoughts, the taste of your skin strikes a dull chord in me, awakening the memory of writing, sickened I lean forward, anticipating that metallic glint off of my tongue, whenever your blood meets mine,…oh, I wish we could do this all day, but night is approaching, and my social calendar is full, this voice I hear, this voice within, clouds my judgment, and I decide to spend the night.

Little known to me, your energy, envenomates me, and I look inside myself and trust your strength, emotionless you frown at my hesitation. Right and wrong has never been so difficult for you…you just frowned that beautiful smile, and people threw themselves at your feet, and you kicked them far-away…too afraid of connecting with them, holding onto the shreds of sanity that lead to the door of your (self…, no one else could compare to the madness, the) deadliness (made it so addicting,) and here we are again, falling down this path of unmistaken misery, a journey that stabs us with confidence, and we’re learning now, how to trust yourself, and even if (I) have to [kill you, you’ll] understand, (that) nothing else is a map, save your blood, (tattooed on your back the ink moves, it’s living, poison and shaking) begin to hate me, I resist your temptations, your charms…(to my self) I’m a fool, a fool, (dastardly) thinking, it fooled me, it fooled me, it fooled me, me, me, me… oh I’m immune to your body, your voice, but those eyes alas those eyes…

Your frown makes it so much tastier, to (devour) you, (oh enslaved) I’m addicted, accomplished, sophisticated past the point of harder,better,faster,stronger, more,more,more,more the walls shake, this earthquake, binds me to you.

Once you gave everything, twice you were amazing, thrice you took my breath away…a fourth and we’ll both die.

Amazingly (I,am,powerless) to your beating, deceiving, heart…(and then…) your décolletage, (so soft, it) calls to me, (me, me, me) and I yield.

I must whisper (in your ear) all of my greatest everythings’, all my naughty little somethings’, all my tempted bless, bastard lovings, possessed, enthralled, beaten to submission, poisonous, nothings, group together, form an army, and hate you, you, you, you, with all of our mediæval hearts…

Oh, Mona Lisa, every part of you & you & you, loosens my values till I’m insane enough to anticipate killing you,…O! My lovely, dangerous, complicated, oh so amazingly sophisticated hatred, my Mona Lisa,…
I slit your throat, your smile beguiles me,…why couldn’t you stay, and never change, why couldn’t you just stay, my Mona Lisa?

Interrogations, Concerning A Bloody Beautiful Butterfly...

“I’m glad.” she said. Even in her weakened state, it wasn’t fair how benign she could look, just as a butterfly flies its ending loop, mind in awhirl, I solemnly stood watch over her body, a lone sentry, absolutely devoted to my princess, stained scarlet, with her own blood. She was even more heartbreakingly beautiful, even as she drew her last breaths; I knew, that had it been any other than I, her faithful servant, watching her, had it been anyone else, anyone the least bit sick and ungrateful, they would have ravaged my poor flowers’ body, defenselessness adding its own charm to her pale, bloodless skin.

“Hime”. What do you want me to do now?” I asked, my voice, weak and fragile,… my painful tears, freefell from a face that had shown no emotion in years, [determination, and loyalty excepted]. It was fine. I had reassured myself that it was fine, whenever she had left on her own, whenever she had said that she would patrol the western gates, (as a show of independence) I had said it would be fine. She’d never screamed. She’d sent me her position, through the link, and had let me find her. Lascar was still hovering over her. Stanley was attending her wounds. She shot me a look. One look. And I knew. She was dead. Or as good as dead. She beckoned to me.

“Rage. Rage is what you are,” she murmured softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Rage is what you’ve been; Rage is what you will always be.”  Rage. I agreed with her. A small keening noise in the back of my throat shocked me. I was not angry, I was not rueful. I was mourning. I was mourning a princess, an idol whom had yet to die. Sick... Sickened is what I was, with every polluted breath I took, rich in health, hers were fading, gradually stopping, her fragile body, no longer possessing the amount necessary to sustain her body, and to keep her imbued with these chemical imbalances, her body, was starting to shut down. I was mourning. And she was dying.

Hello, Inspector. That brief flashback I’ve described to you, paraphrases the time I realized, that our beloved princess was a butterfly. A butterfly, that had dreamed of being a princess, and just as she escalated into climax…she was thwarted.

By whom you ask? By fate, of course. She hadn’t wavered, she hadn’t fought. She’d simply, looked at me once more, breathed a meaningful, “Adieu.”, and then,… she died. Her eyes, wide like the willow tree, filled with stars, only she could see. And I left her there. And as I turned back, I realized, I’d killed her. And that’s why we’re here today, Inspector. But to revert back, to her transformation, she positively, glowed, from the inside, and cast herself off, into a dream. A dream where a princess, was a butterfly, and that is how she, a victim, softly forced the gates of hell open, (took her potion,) and with a graceful, vengeance, admitted to herself that she was lying. But that did not stop her.

She became a butterfly. As her tears dried, in her eyes, still too unsure of herself to even cry, I cradled her beautiful, scarlet head, such a beautiful, porcelain doll. On her cheek, there was a mark, a single cut. Hope. It was the mark of a butterfly, in the throes of freedom, the mark that a butterfly makes on her chrysalis…

Fitting is it not? It wasn’t that, really, which left me with so much of an impression. Her transformation. It was not what really took my breath away. What really burned in my blood, and marked itself in me so deeply, my ashes will submit willingly to hell’s fires, still carrying that brand, was that as she, a princess, lay dying, and I, her murderer, watched over her, bleeding, (beautifully,) into hell, it was that, even as she took her last breaths’, she was pleasured. She was fulfilled, and pleasured with joy, agony, despair, all, nothing, anything, everything. Save for hope. She knew all was lost, yet she took my hand and whisper-screamed to me, “All is won.” And I, defenseless, against the onslaught of beautiful, mournful evocations (of morale) her voice inspired within me, felt my heart dream of insecurity, in lucid unwelcome backgrounds; I hovered gently between insanity and total well-being. [It was a wonderful feeling.] The insight, that I was not who I was, and that she was truly who she was meant to be, I shuddered.

My self, was filled once more with hateful, jealous, boundless [miserable] joy, exhilarated by her weakness, her surrender, everything taboo and illustrious about her, I was once again, glorious,… and humiliated. That such, power, held in her words and her rank, could submit to nothing more than the eloquence, the greed, and the strength I possessed, as nothing more than chance, you cannot own chance yet fate had decreed this! This raw onslaught that vibrated into rage was I, and I, was captivated, By this beautiful, sinless, monster, pulsing through me, this heat, this lust, inspired by her, with her, in her, because of her, it filled me to the core, and once again, I ravaged her. I plundered into her, hot and unworthy, and she, in cries of deceit, and gutlessness, forgave me.

How could she? How could she, Inspector? Words fail me, [at this moment,] I cannot describe, how holy I was, at that exact moment, at that exact occurrence.

But I digress;…It’s not really up to me now, is it? I, who in that fatal moment showed a glimmer of weakness, was dragged, by my pride, into a courtyard, and whipped by an angel. Or so, my friends would later tell me, in a drug-induced stupor, opium, if I’m to be exact, they ridiculed me for my obsession, but the light had raped me, and the darkness that had forever permeated every ounce of my being, and I, in a fit, of Rage, impregnated with narcissism, and depression, I later would presume it had been a fit of self-righteousness. Nothing malignant, or despondent about it, merely nonsensical, and hypothetical, down to the last demons’ eye.

And, if these recollection’s really are, the product, and seemingly, a side-effect of, hallucinogens, and standards, then who are you in society, too drunk on a dream, and unhealthful social orders, who are you to tell me, that I am the criminal? I murdered her that day, [yes,] I murdered my self as well, and according to myself, you can arrest me. You can finally detain me, and behead me, if need be, you see fit, or a decree commands it, but do not agree to sit here, and judge me, based on an emotionless report, and a stratagem that demands it. Although I confess, I myself have never once, forgotten the way I looked when I first slaughtered an innocent lamb.

Oh do not feign ignorance, it was in your eyes as well. Did you pull out a looking-glass, and analyze it? Did you see in your iris, some evil; some malignant thought, that had crossed your mind seeing the (beautiful) blood gush from her neck? [Paint it in red, sign it in red, chafe your soul red…]

Did you, so much like I, obtain so much pleasure from that little event, that it sparked your instincts, primal, and delicious, and you, hunched down with your limits, and your consciences, did you, Inspector, get down on your knees, and praise evil? Did you, lean forward, thinking of that animalistic grace that we lack and possess, so in tune, with ourselves, that we forget it’s there, until that freezing, vengeful moment when blood is spilt, and you, hungry as ever, reach out with your tongue, and taste it? Did that purity, when absorbed into your organ, (much like some cruel, endangered sponge,) suck out the (life of happiness) only joy you’ve ever known? Did you, with that beatific, scarlet, essence, on your tongue, did you lick your lips?

And sub-consciously leap for joy, because you, are an animal, not a refined gentleman, not an earl, (or a kind, chauvinist pig) of any sort, did you rejoice, as the hot, deadly, poisonous taste hit you? Did you forget, for what seemed like eons, just how delicious innocence is? I for one, Inspector, I for one, know that you did.

You ask me how I know this. You ask me just exactly, how could I, a murderer, (a doctor,) a lover of arts and sciences, a man so like yourself Inspector, how could I presume to tell you what you did, how you did it, and how you were capable of doing it, not in an alternate universe, but rather as a man, in this one. How you in all ways, and oh so beautifully put, and bluntly asked, and skillfully rendered and chaotically portrayed, in your imagination, in your mind’s eye, how you can see, this is the truth, and this is the lie, and you most definitely are not insane,(but I most definitely am,) and how shivering, you sense a maddening connection with me, disgust etched in the unforgiving lines of your cold, beautiful face, shock painted in your eyelids, the deep blue of your tranquility stained with my light violet imagery…provocative, isn’t it? Those are the effects of the drug known to mankind, Inspector, as logic.

Aren’t you tired Inspector? This tirade, this rant, is tiresome isn’t it? Quite effectively boring as well, the actor has no skill at all, it’s absolutely pointless to be here, because as we all know, the whole world in fact, knows, that we two have much bigger, and better things to be doing than having this wonderful, little chat, in your parlor, no less. If I myself were to write a treaty, to your happiness, and to my submissiveness, we would find a beauteous bridge mapped out ahead of us. You see, Inspector, what you don’t know, is that my words are the beams. Your confusion is the nails. My assertiveness is the map. Your insecurity is the termites. My willpower is the maggots. Your title, Inspector, is the foundation. Mine, Murderer, is the inlay. Everything else, my inspector, is a sieve. Pretend all you like, but there is and isn’t an exact meaning to our meeting.

I was bound to tell you. And you were bound to disappoint me, your reactions far too predictable and ostentatious. You take me very seriously Inspector, but I would advise you not to. Aside, from polite greetings, and obscure conversations, coupled with certain vagueness, you, my Inspector, are a man of thinking. A man of a meticulous, perfect, demeanor. And I, Inspector, am a man of inspiration. A man, of blood. These twists, and turns, better suit my ideology, my philosophy, because, believe it or not, Inspector, I too, have values. And things I wish to protect.

So, like a beautiful caged bird, must end it’s song with death, we draw to a conclusion, I myself having occupied every angle from which I could attack my self, finally disguise myself under the guise of my self, and do find, in time, you are a moralist, a terrorist. I am a specialist, an egoist;…a romanticist.

I admit, I really do, often, forget where I am, and who I am, and why I am, but let me tell you this, Inspector, if you really must brand me a sinner, then let me harmlessly brand you a beetle.

I know this isn’t the time to debate fate, we’ve tempted subservience enough for one evening, enough as it is, adequate as it appears to be, I need to be getting on back to my cell.

But, as misleading as the truth can be: lies always lead back to the truth (and same-senescent as it must be,) truth establishes nothing but lies.

Rest well, Inspector, and although it didn't feel like this exact time was suitable to mention closure, escapism as well, there wouldn't happen to be a situation,( much like this exact occurrence,) happening anywhere elsewhere tonight, now would there?

Well, I’ll tell you, just between us.

There is.

Oh, what a grand shocking thing it is to be right, isn’t it Inspector?

I know, because I, Inspector, I, am not really here.

Goodnight, Inspector. This is the very last time we shall meet.

Why, you ask? Because, my dear Inspector, you are dead.

San Juanita Eva Hernandez

Professor Valadez

English III

23 February 2012

The Role of Women in Uncle Tom’s Cabin

“O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky; but still you haven’t to know that you don’t understand business; - women never do, and never can …” –George Shelby, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

The women in Uncle Tom’s Cabin are very powerful people, whether they are changing their own lives, or the lives of the people around them, and whether they are using their power for good or to further evil. In some cases, such as Mrs. St. Clare, the women inadvertently perpetrate evil, as Mrs. St. Clare denies her dead husband’s wishes, and sells Tom to Legree, despite Mr. St. Clare’s promise of freedom. However, most women in this story take control of things when the men seem to be making the wrong decisions. Mrs. Shelby fights with her husband over the sale of the slaves in the beginning because of the promise she’d made to Eliza that she would never split her family apart. Eliza decides to run away with her child to avoid having him sold into another home. CITATION The12 \l 1033 (Thesis Statements and Important Quotes from Uncle Tom's Cabin) In what ways do the women in this story symbolize the important role of women, both in the home and in the public?

The novel, as a genre developed by women, is characterized by unchecked sentimentality and a thematic focus on love and domestic relationships. CITATION Unc \l 1033 (Mueller) Throughout Uncle Tom’s Cabin there is an underlying theme of the importance of the role of women in the mid-nineteenth century plantation culture; Stowe addresses the issue of women’s rights with the employment of strong and influential female characters.

In Uncle Tom’s Cabin, when Mrs. Shelby asks to help her husband with the plantation finances he replies, “O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky; but still you haven’t to know that you don’t understand business; -- women never do, and never can … You don’t know anything about business, I tell you” (Stowe, 372). Even though Mrs. Shelby is very intelligent and has “a force of character every way superior to that of her husband” (Stowe), because she is a woman her husband will not even entertain the idea of allowing her to directly help him with business affairs; her place is in the domestic affairs of their home. Although women were perceived to be insignificant and completely unattached to the business affairs of men, Stowe suggests that this was not the case. Instead, she argues that, as wives and mothers, women have the ability to shape the morals, values and actions of the men around them. CITATION Chr \l 1033 (Haug)

A woman’s influence could be felt, not only within the realms of her immediate family, but in the plantation community as well. Women’s roles in men’s lives are considered so great that “conditions that produce unwomanly women subvert the natural order of things, for without women in their proper place as administrators of the home, the rest of society cannot function” (Jenkins, 174-175). Throughout her novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Stowe draws a parallel between the plight of enslaved African Americans and the repressed women of the time; both lack the rights and social standing of white males. (Haug)

Stowe uses her novel as a venue for “converting essentially repressive concepts of femininity into a positive (and activist) alternative system of values in which women figures not merely as the moral superior of man, as his inspirer, but as the model for him in the new millennium about to dawn” CITATION Luc \l 1033 (MacKethan). This idea, that as wives and mothers women have the ability to shape the morals, values and actions of the men around them, can be seen frequently throughout Stowe’s work. (Haug)

Throughout the story Stowe uses female characters to speak about women’s rights and the roles of the men in their lives. Even though, at that time, women were viewed to be inferior and subordinate to men, they in fact shaped the men in their lives. Although Stowe does not say that Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a specifically feminist work, the novel nonetheless is regarded as an example of early feminism. Stowe’s suggestion that women retained subtle but great power and influence over their husbands was not only empowering but revolutionary; this implication provided further fuel to the feminist arguments of the time. (Haust)

Stowe wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin to protest the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. At a time when the public sphere was reserved for men and the domestic sphere for women, Stowe couldn't express her political views by voting, but she could write. What she wrote was a woman-centered novel, a novel in which women characters usually act more morally than their male counterparts and in which the narrator directly appeals to women readers in terms of their morality and motherhood. Stowe felt that women had a role to play in the slavery debate because slavery was a moral question, not just a political one. CITATION Har1 \l 1033 (Harris) Stowe had to mold her characters to fit the ''certain demands [of her novel's] intended female audience.'' CITATION EAn \l 1033 (Kaplan)

In Chapter IX of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the heroine of Chapter IX, Senator Byrd's wife, gently expresses her opposition to the Fugitive Slave Act by "entreaty and persuasion," and admits to her husband that “I don’t know anything about politics, but I can read my Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe, the naked, and comfort the desolate; and that Bible I mean to follow.” (Stowe). The way in which Stowe holds up Mrs. Byrd and other pious and domestic women as models raises the question of whether Stowe's novel challenged or upheld her cultures strict gender roles. CITATION Jes \l 1033 (Sower)

Stowe's novel is considered to be a progressive text as women assert their roles as ''moral centers'' in order to cultivate social and political change. A character that powerfully demonstrates this is Mrs. Bird. Stowe is very careful in her description of Mrs. Bird, explaining that in contrast to her seemingly gentle nature, ''anything in the shape of cruelty would throw her into a passion'' (Stowe, 68). Mrs. Bird is more complex than the submissive iconic female figure. In her own home, Mrs. Bird acts as a sort of moral leader for her family and demonstrates a certain amount of control over her husband through her emotional sensitivity. CITATION Jes \l 1033 (Sower)

Mrs. Bird acts as a sort of ''moral tutor in the scene'' and ''disciplines her husband to judge with his heart rather than his head'' CITATION Mar08 \l 1033 (Wearn)This instance ultimately demonstrates Stowe's ''promotion of the nineteenth-century feminist responsibility to [right the] world's wrongs'' through the maternal instinct CITATION Mar \l 1033 (Henning).

Knowing her audience would primarily be white women, Stowe played on their feelings of uneasiness and guilt over the treatment of slaves, especially those of the Northern white women who could help with the Abolitionist movement, by introducing her readers to seemingly real characters suffering from the injustice of slavery. This can be seen even in the style in which Uncle Tom’s Cabin was written; Stowe directly addresses her readers, forcing them to consider slavery from the point of view of the enslaved. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning, – if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve o'clock till morning to make good your escape, – how fast could you walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom, – the little sleepy head on your shoulder, – the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?” CITATION Har \l 1033 (Stowe)

Stowe appeals directly to her reader, whom she assumes to be a white 19th century northern Christian mother. Forcing the reader to imagine herself in Eliza’s situation strengthens the reader’s sympathetic bond with Eliza and makes her suffering even more poignant. CITATION Shm \l 1033 (Shmoop)

“Expressive of and responsible for the values of its time, it also belongs to a genre, the sentimental novel, whose chief characteristic is that it is written by, for, and about women” (Tompkins 124-25). Uncle Tom’s Cabin is a sentimental novel; it was meant to appeal to the unsettled emotions that existed in the reader’s mind, creating and sense of guilt and injustices, making them see how slavery destroys human lives and families. Through the introduction of these Southern families, Stowe demonstrates how slavery corrupts and ultimately eliminates domestic stability. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“But what can any individual do? Of that, every individual can judge. There is one thing that every individual can do; -- they can see to it that they feel right. An atmosphere of sympathetic influence encircles every human being; and the man or woman who feels strongly, healthily and justly, on the great interests of humanity, is a constant benefactor to the human race. See, then, to your sympathies in this matter!” CITATION Har \l 1033 (Stowe)

Uncle Tom’s Cabin spoke to each individual Northerner who read its pages, forcing her to view slavery from a new perspective, sympathize with the slave characters, and relate the novel to things she knew all too well—family, sentimentality, and the Cult of Domesticity. Above all, Harriet Beecher Stowe wanted her white audience to take action against slavery. CITATION Bra \l 1033 (McCandless)

“And you, mothers of America, – you who have learned, by the cradles of your own children, to love and feel for all mankind, – by the sacred love you bear your child; by your joy in his beautiful, spotless infancy; by the motherly pity and tenderness with which you guide his growing years; by the anxieties of his education; by the prayers you breathe for his soul's eternal good; – I beseech you, pity the mother who has all your affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, or educate, the child of her bosom! By the sick hour of your child; by those dying eyes, which you can never forget; by those last cries, that wrung your heart when you could neither help nor save; by the desolation of that empty cradle, that silent nursery, – I beseech you, pity those mothers that are constantly made childless by the American slave-trade! And say, mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sympathized with, and passed over in silence? “(Stowe) Unsurprisingly, Stowe ends Uncle Tom’s Cabin with special appeals to free mothers to sympathize with slaves and to raise their children as abolitionists. CITATION Shm \l 1033 (Shmoop)

The important role of women, both in the home and in the public is widely expanded upon in Stowe’s novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The inner themes of love, domestic relationship, and the importance of women in mid-nineteenth century plantation culture appeal the novel to the women of the times,

Works Cited

Baym, Nina. Woman’s Fiction: A Guide to Novels by and about Women in America, 1820-1870. New York: Cornell UP, 1978.

Brown, Gillian. “Sentimental Possession.” Domestic Individualism: Imagining Self in Nineteenth-Century America. Berkeley: U of California P, 1990. 39-60.

Brown, Gillian. “Getting in the Kitchen with Dinah: Domestic Politics in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” American Quarterly 36 (Fall 1984): 503-523.

Davidson, Kathy N. “Preface: No more separate spheres!” American Literature 70 (September 1998): 443-454.

Eagleton, Mary. “Genre and Gender.” Modern Genre Theory. Ed. David Duff. London: Longman. 250-262.

Works Cited

BIBLIOGRAPHY Harris. Teaching Unle Tom's Cabin: Women Characters and Readers. .

Haug, Christine. Beyond Hearth and Home. .

Henning, Martha L. Beyond Understanding: Appeals to the Imagination, Passions, and Will in Mid-Nineteenth-Century American Woman's Fiction. n.d.

Kaplan, E. Ann. "Motherhood and Representation ." (n.d.).

MacKethan, Lucinda H. "Domesticity in Dixie: The Plantation Novel and Uncle Tom’s Cabin."

McCandless, Brandi. Slavery's Destruction of Domestic Life. .

Mueller, Hannah. Uncle Tom’s Cabin: Breaking Down a Gendered Genre and a Genre of Gender. 25 03 2008. 22 02 2012 .

Shmoop. .

Sower, Jessy. "The Changing Role of Women in America." (n.d.).

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. Uncle Tom's Cabin. n.d.

Thesis Statements and Important Quotes from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 22 02 2012 .

Wearn, Mary McCartin. Negotiating Motherhood in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. New York: Jerome Nadelhaft, Routledge , 2008.

Bookmarks to Remember(:

1. http://www.career-intelligence.com/management/10-Classic-Clothing-Pieces.asp
2. http://www.webmd.com/parenting/baby/infant-development-9/brain-development?page=4
3. http://womenshistory.about.com/od/quotes/a/sylvia_plath.htm
4. http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/199607/the-creative-personality
5. http://www.smosh.com/smosh-pit/photos/wisest-philosoraptor-quotes
6. http://www.squidoo.com/colormeaning
7. http://mylanguages.org/easy_languages.php
8. http://www.missselfridge.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/TopCategoriesDisplay?storeId=12554&catalogId=33055
9. http://www.thechicfashionista.com/hourglass-body-shape.html
10. http://www.questionablecontent.net/
11. http://klassyp.tumblr.com/
12. http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2342/is_n3_v29/ai_18096758/pg_3/?tag=content;col1
13. http://www.abundancetapestry.com/10-inspiring-facebook-banner-quotes/
14. http://www.mangafox.com/manga/glamorous_lip/c004/13.html
15. http://my.hgtv.com/style-finder/transition.esi?style=RetroArtDeco&continueUrl=http://www.athomewith.com/community&catdisp=Retro__Art__Deco&returl=null
16. http://www.ryland.com/personalize-your-home/my-style-quiz.aspx
17. http://narcissistsdiary.blogspot.com/
18. http://books.google.com/books?id=6kvxI6aV1aYC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=true
19. http://www.mangathat.com/gantz/136/12-106
20. http://fuckyeahpixiecuts.tumblr.com/page/11
21. http://www.continuum-concept.org/reading/neurosis.html
22. http://www.enneagram.net/type3.html
23. http://freshome.com/2007/04/17/room-color-and-how-it-affects-your-mood/
24. http://www.forbes.com/2010/10/29/fashion-blogs-professional-women-forbes-woman-style-working-wardrobe_2.html
25. http://users.erols.com/geary/psychology/assessment.htm
26. http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=PSEYXWmEse8
27. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUMeps0Gk1A&feature=BFa&list=ULxDQ0JJiw-fE&lf=mfu_in_order
28. http://haleykristinesimons.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html
29. http://www.shopkawaii.com/San-X-All-Stars-10-Tarepanda-Plush-p/mk-43101.htm
30. http://forums.blackbutler.net/showthread.php?810-Kuroshitsuji-Musical-2-The-Most-Beautiful-Death-in-the-World-Lyrics-amp-Translations
31. http://forums.blackbutler.net/showthread.php?806-Kuroshitsuji-Musical-2-The-Most-Beautiful-Death-in-the-World-Soundtrack
32. http://www.trendhunter.com/trends/giuseppe-circhetta#!/photos/110189/4
33. http://www.cognitivequiz.com/quiz.html
34. http://personalitycafe.com/whats-my-enneagram-type/72621-7w8-3w4.html
35. http://personalitycafe.com/enneagram-personality-theory-forum/

Blogspot. You've been amazing. But I've cheated on you repeatedly. I have a tumblr now. If you want, you can visit me @http://sanjuanitaevahernandez.tumblr.com/
Iloveyou. Adieu&Until we meet again...
Yours always,
-juanita<3<3<3

Love Message from Beca:

I log onto my Facebook, and this is what greets me<3

"So, it just so happens that I REALLY love you. I've been in a mood for love messages lately, and you totally deserve one. I love you with all my heart and soul and you mean THE WORLD to me♥"

She's got me cryin' and whatnot :3 Ilovethisgalsofuckingmuch,..oops.
Pardon my French<3

If I Die Young:

1. I want to be cremated.
2. I want my ashes to be mixed in with the ashes of my things that no one else wants, and will burn easily. 
3. I want the mixed ashes to be thrown into the river. Any river.
4. Mum gets all my life insurance money (spend it on property/building a house, kay mum?)
5. Beca gets my anime, manga, and essays (but bury my Junjou Romantica with me, okay? C:)
6. Ralph gets my everything else. He'll divide it, seeing as how he knows me best.
7. Whatever I have that can be sold, sell it. 
8. I want strippers. Just kidding. No, serious.
9. I want you all to get on your fucking knees, and say my name:D
10. No one is going to cry. If you cry, I will personally kick your ass; so shut your face, 'cause you all look ugly when you cry. 
11. Pardon my French, I love you all so fucking much. <3
12. So there you have it, I San Juanita Eva Hernandez, being of sound mind and sound body, do declare my will and testament. (Actually, it's just a shit ton of demands. Anywhore, screw you. I'm already dead so stfu and live a good life. GATA!)

Le soleil se couche. Pourquoi ressent-on la nuit?

The sun goes down. Why does it feel like night?

Lately, I've been feeling a little choked up. I'll stop what I'm doing, and I'll think to myself, "What am I doing?"
It seems, as if, everything that I want, all of my hopes and dreams...they're suddenly so superficial.
And slowly, I've started to doubt everything. Everything. I don't understand anything. I have so much to give, I had plans. When did I cross the line, and become that which I detest?
...Le visage l'intérieur est juste sous la peau ...the face inside is right beneath the skin.

Watching this new anime, (Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi) just makes my heart melt. Episode 9, and I've been clutching my pillow, gnawing my lip, wiping tears from my eyes, and reducing my fingernails to paper-thin shreds. I wish I could love as they love. The only thing blocking me is me, I know that but, it's so hard to remove the basic thought: I am nothing. I do not deserve that storybook romance, I deserve only what I earn, and as of yet I haven't earned anything. I am not beautiful. I am not lovely. I am not the kind of girl that poems are written of. I do not know what I am.
Sigh, and yet again I've managed to turn a post into a depressing mess. Look at me, I'm worthless. Sometimes, I really do struggle. I don't know what I'm saying. I have it easy. I just need to cut the bullshit and find my medium. Maybe I'll take up painting? I don't know. Oh well, this is good-bye. I really want to read North of Beautiful by Justina Chen Headley again. Wondrous book. It seems like all I do is read. Why is that? Adieu, -Jolie Laide.

Quotes and Plans [Knives]...

Shattered glass images prey upon lovely gleaming young tile painted a blue of deceit, a blue of lapis lazuli, a blue of toxic familiarity, a blue of adoration and oily hair and glossy smiles…
In the yellow chloroform filled waste of an organ, brimming with the salty waters of indulgence. Do you see the profound darkness, acid-like splattering, congealing across the marbled carving in your tomb? Thou hast not gathered enough dust in thy lifetime to make up for the lack of praise and Immortality you sacrificed into the chair of man-to-man combat and abseil, broken into a chorus of ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs‘, followed by ‘You firsts’ and, ‘I insists’.
Where are you going and why, what will you do and when, what means will you use and how, manipulation: trepidation, manipulation: stipulation, manipulation: modest inflammation!
  Amidst gloomy Grey skies and interim truths; Ethics account for values, but what part does Vanity play in Evolution? Those that were fit to admire their reflection moved across the wings of time in a commonplace grandeur, oh, how easy it is to forget who you are, amidst lovely chocolate-covered-mint-tainted-biscuits-and-strawberry-wine-with-a-side-order-of-a-small-equipotent, luxury and life, how…desolate.
What did you say your name was? Surely, you have a title of some sort, a way to remember you perhaps? A signature cologne, a certain tattoo, symbolic and rich in bergamot meaning?
In the absence of fate only comment scents can be thought, and uncertainty brewed when recognition fades; when designing satire is your only form of entertainment, “Oh what a pitiful life thou hast made!”, and accounted for.
  Hide your hair, behind a bonnet of white that is not yet white, and not-nearly-white, but merely-white, or clearly-white or nonsensical-white as the soon-to-be-bride …it's green-white and Grey-white and blue-white and yellow-white and orange-white and ecru.
  It's perfect and imperfect and repetitive and stressed and unbleached but oh so clean and imaginarily arbitrarily Gone with the wind, gone under the water, gone away in fire, gone into the Earth, gone, simple G-O-N-E, gone. Simple yet not-so-simple. How we humans judge time, harshly and frail, bitter and weak, broken and intended… our greatest asset is also our least relevant; have you any idea what it is? The debate has gone on for so long, I sometimes wish to flip a coin, pick a side, and be done with it.
To be praised for my choice, or exiled for my actions, exhilaration presages evolution.
  Democracy demands delegation, while distinct disadvantages disarm direct derogatory diffusion, dithering about on an errand for the up-and-coming débutante, who has just announced her engagement to the Prince of Contribution, who so gladly drove the decision to domesticate herds of deer and wolves and snakes; thinking that snails and horses would come along their natural way and oh! Look at that escargot.
Language and Literature contribute to the joining of words, jointing letters, programming the basic needs of our culture, and responsive taboos each etched into our minds so willingly and decimating that only catastrophe awaits those who while their time away…
While I find that experimenting with love and emotion and human fascination in the divine and mysterious, is both enchanted and repulsive,…the need for all things to be led and controlled; our survival hinting at more than dependence, yet our ultimate destruction lies between the hunches that whatever we do will not make it to tomorrow, and our little thought-bubbles which we cartoonishly just pictured, here upon this silken paper; will influence tomorrow, governing our every crucible, salivating appropriately on command and as expected when the chimechimechime of a hand-held bell is heard…
By what can the temper of the ocean be quelled? Blood sheds blood which sheds blood upon blood upon blood, and soon, no one is left in the general population with any faint recollection of noone and everyone has been drained of emotion and Latin texts until finally the last human Emotion is unstoppered as Alas! Oh no! Oh dear! The fatal path of formality left standing alone and beguiled, clumsily attracting vultures and flies, pheasants and swine with bloodless cries that disturbingly are not really filled with any blood at all!
Exempli gratia, the music of a mob, characteristic and immobilizing, the whirlwhirlwhirl of a ceiling fan, spinning about the way it's always done because that's just the way that things are done! How evil. Nothing is as evil as a reactionary, an acute of the sort of mind in which mindful Mab sends her maid Maurine out to the forest in search of spear minted fairy floss, spun by the most fawned of floss-sinners, and forever ostracized as the underdeveloped status quo, beginning with amber and ending with Gris, painted on with a roaring cough of henning and touted about in a roundabout way,…
  At the head of the humor-mill lies the lye of the rumor-mill, who's head-woman just toasted the captain Tulle, I can almost taste the propaganda this will generate, even more gustatory pleasing, the spicy courteous heresy of ‘a toast to you all of our finest and cheapest champagne!
My, how spontaneously, absolutely, unorthodox of you,…[to the side] be careful Amber, Todd has the plague.
By evening anybody who’s anybody knows, but of course this was all generated when little Ms. Somebody couldn’t keep her trap shut until after your flight to Paris.
  My how silly of me, climbing this mountain, just because it's there doesn't mean I should climb it, oh I am crazy, what was I thinking?! But that ladies and gentlemen, that is the absolute beauty of it! Why, my dear heavens, you weren't thinking at all! And, I beg your pardon, Sir, but wasn't it wonderful?
Oh, woe me, norms meat, woebegone [Soliloquy] the tides of temptation and oh how that apple tempts me! [Monologue] Yet I know one bite, one fatalistic bite and the world as we know it will cease to me and to all that will come from me, Oh! [Aside] From, all the chaos and Irony here to tonight, I wish to welcome you by singing a well known duet with thee, …continue Maestro?
  Breaking, bumbling, stopping, stumbling; wheedling your hours away, tattooing ire upon your skin, letting the ink fill you and stain your blood with teeny droplets of remorse. Catapulted headfirst, upon a Journey of Life, a game of feelings and desperate whining, shooed away at the most unlucky of moments,…your shenanigans are costly, you realize that don’t you? For all of your happiness and self-worth, accumulated garbage in a secondhand shop somewhere in France, lolling about with your tongue sticking out and an extreme hope for a picnic-worthy spot, and an advantageous glimpse of the Tour de Force.
  Monarchy and loyalty bridge a fine gap, that which is meaningless and that which is meaningful, that which is probable and completely impossible; you were broken, now you are fixed, you are lost, but now you have a compass. So which way will you go? Will you skip merrily down the street in the latest of amazing shoes, or will you trudge wearily through the mud, a trucker's atlas in your first hand and a glass of fermented rue in the next?
  Put your hand in your pockets, this doesn't concern you. Put your two cents in while they're worth something, then take a dip in the indoor heated swimming pool; allow no one to recognize you, not even for an instant,…for the most dangerous enemies are the ones who are honest with you.
  Look someone famous, where will you go…come to me, Mona and let us Rome the streets of Italy. Clever girl, foolish girl, lovely girl, wondrous girl, beautiful girl, insane girl,…inane girl, but one-substantial-woman. Random generated numbers, find the patterns? Look-at-de-dew. 3.141592653584 la~la~la~la~la. Material comforts sabotage the prime numbers within you, how far have you gone, on pity and charity alone?

When the real questions to ask, is “May I ask you something?”

Make It Stop

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XP4clbHc4Xg

It Gets Better! It Gets So Much Better!!!

Teeth!

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6kHcJV-zXg&NR=1

You Are NEVER Alone!

So you want to kill yourself? Because no one cares about you. Your family hates you. Right? No. Your parents walking in your room in the morning to only find a dead body. They’ll try their hardest to not think negative, and to just think that you’re fooling around. Then they’ll start shaking you. Why aren’t you breathing? They’ll be broken. Tears. Many tears. More tears than you ever shed. Was it them? Were they the reason you did this? More tears. Pain. Every day. Every night. Every single second of every day. Guilt. More guilt. What about your bestfriends? They’re not going to care. Right? No. What’s the first thing that will go through their mind when your principal comes in and tells the class that you’re not alive. While your bestfriend sits there in tears. That girl that you’d smile at but never talk to? She’s now crying. The boy who used to kick you under the table just to annoy you? He’ll be shocked. He’ll be devastated. He’ll blame himself. What about your teacher? Thoughts crossing her mind. She’ll question if you did it because she didn’t make school comfortable enough for you. Pain. Devastation. All in one. Who organises your funeral? Who has to go through your stuff? Clothes? Notes? Those few older girls who used to give you daggers at school? They’ll feel regret. They’ll blame themselves. See, if you killed yourself today, you’ll never know what might of happened tomorrow. You’ll never know because you’re dead. Plain dead. Not breathing. Not alive. Just dead. Your family hates themselves for it. Your bestfriend then falls into depression. Tears. Tears. More tears than a river. All because you killed yourself because you thought noone would care. Right? You are loved. By many. Someone right now is thinking of you. And right now, I’m thinking about anyone who has thought or is considering suicide. You are beautiful. No matter if you’re black, white, homo-sexual, tall, short, overweight or anorexic. You are beautiful. You want to kill yourself? Think about it first. There’s no coming back. And I promise, if you do it, you are not only hurting yourself, you are hurting many. You are creating more tears than you led yourself to. You are making everyone miserable and making them all feel guilt and pain. Never will they feel whole like they used to when they had you. You are beautiful. And you are never ever alone.

Favorite Fruit :P

Black grapes

You are a polite person in general, but do have quick flare-ups of temper that cool down just as quickly. You enjoy beauty in all forms, including beautiful people. You are very popular because of your warm, gregarious nature. You have a zest for life; you enjoy every thing you do, right from the way you dress, to your style and élan in your day-to-day life. Your partner must share your zeal and zing for life… to enjoy all you have to offer!

ColorQuizResults :3

 Your Existing Situation

"Is lazy when it comes to further herself or her career and lacks the ambition to change things. Does not like to put to much effort into things, except sexual activity. she would rather feel comfort and security, than success."
Your Stress Sources

"Wishes for freedom and independence, free from limitations and restrictions except for the ones she choices to give himself."
Your Restrained Characteristics


Has strong emotional demands and is picky when it comes to choosing a partner. she chooses to remain emotionally distant and uninvolved in relationships.

"Is emotionally demanding, especially during intimate moments, which leaves her feeling frustrated because she is unable to find a perfect union."

"Feels trapped in a helpless situation and is desperately seeking relief. she is able to find pleasure and happiness in sexual activity, as long as there is not a lot of conflict or emotional difficulty."

Your Desired Objective

"Always trying to make a good impression on others, and is constantly watching to see if she is succeeding in this. Is interested in how others react to him; this makes her feel in control. Strategically plans out ways to gain further influence over others and special recognition. Is easily distracted by the pleasingly beautiful and original."
Your Actual Problem

Longs the freedom to make her own decisions and plans without the criticism and restrictions of others. Uses her charm to deal with others and get what she wants.

Humans.

You see, I think we were. We were made to balance, but were given  
free-will. Choices made over hundreds of millions of years spawned a  
new breed of human, that which would become homo sapiens sapiens, and  
evetually impose it's will upon everything else suffering from a  
delusion of superiority because of a merely lucky chanceat evolution,  
or maybe a direct interference upon fate? Anyhow, the human species I  
speak of now are complex, devastating creatures with enormous power at  
their command, many of whom use this advantage for entirely selfish,  
self-serving purposes, and not for the common good as defined by  
intellect and a case of disparaging, raging hormones which serve to  
both advance and hinder an amazingly blend of paranoid self-delusion,  
and misplaced loyalty upon several inferiority complexes unique to the  
human race. That being said, I will never be able to fully explain,  
but be this I am a hypocrite in many ways but in this, no. Long ago I  
accepted my limitations and weaknesses and learned that the only  
potential cure was to ease along a pre-destined path plotted exactly  
for me, my voices and thoughts which heavily influence my own self-
delusion of emotional independence, so, I know that humans are not  
entirely good, but also not entirely evil. Every human is, however,  
very powerful and brutal somewhere beneath an unconsciously managed  
facade of social properness and definitism, they understand and yield  
to the power that the unknown exerts over them and their vassals,  
along with any and all sensations that accompany worth and/or luck.

Interrogations, Concerning A Bloody Beautiful Butterfly...

 

“I’m glad.” she said. Even in her weakened state, it wasn’t fair how benign she could look, just as a butterfly flies its ending loop, mind in awhirl, I solemnly stood watch over her body, a lone sentry, absolutely devoted to my princess, stained scarlet, with her own blood. She was even more heartbreakingly beautiful, even as she drew her last breaths; I knew, that had it been any other than I, her faithful servant, watching her, had it been anyone else, anyone the least bit sick and ungrateful, the would have ravaged my poor flowers’ body, defenselessness adding its own charm to her pale, bloodless skin.

“Hime”. What do you want me to do now?” I asked, voice, was weak and fragile, my own unnecessary tears, freefalling, from a face that had shown no emotion in years, determination, and loyalty excepted, was bloody and painful. It was fine. I told myself it was fine, whenever she left on her own, whenever she said that she would patrol the western gates, as a show of independence, I had said it would be fine. She’d never screamed. She’d sent me her position, through the link, and had let me find her. Lascar was still hovering over her. Stanley was attending her wounds. She shot me a look. One look. And I knew. She was dead. Or as good as dead. She beckoned to me.

“Rage. Rage is what you are,” she murmured softly, eyes never leaving mine. “Rage is what you’ve been; rage is what you will always be. Rage.” I agreed with her. A small keening noise in the back of my throat, shocked me. I was not angry, I was not rueful. I was mourning. I was mourning a princess, an idol, whom had yet to die.Sick.. Sickened is what I was, with every polluted breath I took, rich in health, hers were fading, gradually stopping, her fragile body, no longer possessing the amount necessary to sustain her body, and keep her imbued with these chemical balances, her body, was starting to shut down. I was mourning. And she was dying.

Hello, Inspector. That brief flashback I’ve described to you, paraphrases the time I realized, that our beloved princess, was a butterfly. A butterfly, that had dreamed of being a princess, and just as she escalated into climax…she, was thwarted.

By whom you ask? By fate, of course. She’d wavered, she hadn’t fought. She simply, looked at me once more, breathed a meaningful, “Adieu.”, and then, she died. Her eyes, wide like the willow tree, filled with stars, only she could see. And I left her there. And as I turned back, I realized, I’d killed her. And that’s why we’re here today, Inspector. But to revert back, to her transformation, she positively, glowed, from the inside, and cast herself off, into a dream. A dream where a princess, was a butterfly, and that is how she, a victim, softly forced the gates of hell open, took her potion, and with a graceful, vengeance, admitted to herself she was lying. But that did not stop her.

She became a butterfly. As her tears dried, in her eyes, still too unsure of herself to even cry, I cradled her beautiful, scarlet head, such a beautiful, porcelain doll. On her cheek, a mark, a single cut. Hope. It was the mark, of a butterfly, in the throes of freedom, the mark that a butterfly makes on her chrysalis…

Fitting is it not? It wasn’t that, really, that left me with so much of an impression. Her transformation. It was not what really took my breath away. What really burned in my blood, and marked itself in me so deeply, my ashes will submit willingly to hells’ fires, still carrying that brand, was that as she, a princess, lay dying, and I, her murderer, watched over her, bleeding, beautifully, into hell, it was that, even as she took her last breaths, she was pleasured. She was fulfilled, and pleasured with joy, agony, despair, all, nothing, anything, everything. Save for hope. She knew all was lost, but she took my hand and whispered to me, “All is won.” And I, defenseless, against the onslaught of beautiful, mournful evocations her voice inspired within me, felt my heart dream of insecurity, in lucid unwelcome backgrounds; I hovered gently between insanity and total well-being. It was a wonderful feeling. The insight, that I was not who I was, and that she was who she truly was meant to be, I shuddered.

My self, was filled once again with hateful, jealous, boundless misery, exhilarated by her weakness, her surrender, everything taboo and illustrious, I was once again, glorious, and humiliated. That such, power, held in her words and her rank, could submit to nothing more than the eloquence, the greed, and the strength, I possessed as nothing more than chance, and, yes, fate had decreed this! The raw onslaught that vibrated into rage was I, and I, I was captivated, By this beautiful, sinless, monster, pulsing through me , this heat, this lust, inspired by her, it filled me to the core, and once again, I ravaged her. I plundered into her, hot and unworthy, and she, in cries of deceit, and gutlessness, forgave me.

What a wonderful thing it is, isn’t it, Inspector? Words fail me, at this moment, to describe, how holy I was, at that exact moment, at that exact occurrence.

But I digress;…It’s not really up to me now, is it? I, who in that fatal moment showed a glimmer of weakness, was dragged, by my pride, into a courtyard, and whipped by an angel. Or so, my friends would later tell me, in a drug-induced stupor, opium, if I’m to be exact, they ridiculed me for my obsession, but the light had raped me, and the darkness that had forever permeated every ounce of my being, and I, in a fit, of rage, impregnated with narcissism, and depression, I later would presume it had been a fit of self-righteousness. Nothing malignant, or despondent about it, merely, nonsensical, and hypothetical, down to the last demons’ eye.

And, if these recollection’s really are, the product, and seemingly, a side-effect of, hallucinogens, and standards, then who are you in society, too drunk on a dream, and unhealthful social orders, who are you to tell me, that I am the criminal? I murdered her that day, yes, I murdered my self as well, and according to myself, you can arrest me. You can finally detain me, and behead me, if need be, you see fit, or a decree commands it, but do not agree to sit here, and judge me, based on an emotionless report, and a stratagem that demands it. Although I confess, I myself have never once, forgotten the way I looked when I first slaughtered an innocent lamb.

Oh do not feign ignorance, it was in your eyes as well. Did you pull out a looking-glass, and analyze it? Did you see in your iris, some evil; some malignant thought that had crossed your mind seeing the beautiful blood gush from her neck? Did you, so much like I, obtain so much pleasure from that little event, that it sparked your instincts, primal, and delicious, and you, hunched down with your limits, and your consciences, did you, Inspector, get down on your knees, and praise evil? Did you, lean forward, thinking of that animalistic grace that we lack and possess, so in tune, with ourselves, that we forget it’s there, until that freezing, vengeful moment when blood is spilt, and you, hungry as ever, reach out with your tongue, and taste it? That purity, absorbed into your organ, much like some cruel, endangered sponge, suck out the life of happiness? Did you, with that beatific, scarlet, essence, on your tongue, did you lick your lips? And sub-consciously leap for joy, because you, as an animal, not as a refined gentleman, not as an earl, or a kind, or a chauvinist pig of any sort, did you rejoice, as the hot, deadly, poisonous taste hit you? Did you forget, for what seemed like eons, just how delicious innocence is? I for one, Inspector, I for one, know that you did.

You ask me how I know this. You ask me just exactly, how I, a murderer, a doctor, a lover of arts and sciences, so like yourself Inspector, how I can presume to tell you what you did, how you did it, and how you were capable of doing it, not in an alternate universe, but rather as a man, in this one. How you in all ways, and oh so beautifully put, and bluntly asked, and skillfully rendered and chaotically portrayed, in your imagination, in your mind’s eye, how you can see, this is the truth, and this is the lie, and you most definitely are not insane, but I definitely am, and how shivering, you sense a maddening connection with me, disgust etched in the unforgiving lines of your harsh, beautiful face, shock painted in your eyelids, the deep blue of your tranquility stained with my light, violet imagery…provocative, isn’t it? Those are the effects of the drug known to mankind, as logic.

Aren’t you tired Inspector? This tirade, this rant, is tiresome isn’t it? Quite effectively boring as well, the actor has no skill at all, it’s absolutely pointless to be here, because as we all know, the whole world in fact, knows, that we two have much bigger, and better things to be doing than having this wonderful, little chat, in your parlor, no less. If I myself were to write a treaty, to your happiness, and to my submissiveness, we would find a beauteous bridge mapped out ahead of us. You see, Inspector, what you don’t know, is that my words are the beams. Your confusion is the nails. My assertiveness is the map. Your insecurity is the termites. My willpower is the maggots. Your title, Inspector, is the foundation. Mine, Murderer, is the inlay. Everything else, my inspector, is a sieve. Pretend all you like, but there is and isn’t an exact meaning to our meeting.

I was bound to tell you. And you were bound to disappoint me, your reactions far too predictable and ostentatious. You take me very seriously Inspector, but I would advise you not to. Aside, from polite greetings, and obscure conversations, coupled with certain vagueness, you, my Inspector, are a man of thinking. A man of a meticulous, perfect, demeanor. And I, Inspector, am a man of inspiration. A man, of blood. These twists, and turns, better suit my ideology, my philosophy, because, believe it or not, Inspector, I too, have values. And things I wish to protect.

So, like a beautiful caged bird, must en it’s song with death, we draw to a conclusion, I myself having occupied every angle from which I could attack my self, and finally disguising myself under the guise of my self, do find, in time, you are a moralist, a terrorist. I am a specialist, an egoist;…a romanticist.

I admit, I really do, often, forget where I am, and who I am, and how I am, and why I am, but let me tell you, Inspector, if you really must brand me a sinner, then let me harmlessly brand you a beetle.

I know this isn’t the time to debate fate, we’ve tempted subservience enough for one evening, enough as it is, adequate as it appears to be, I need to be getting on back to my cell.

But, as misleading as the truth can be, a lie, always leads back to the truth and same-senescent as it must be, truth establishes nothing but lies. Rest well, Inspector, and although it didn't feel like at this exact time, was suitable to mention closure, escapism as well, their wouldn't happen to be a situation, much like this, this exact occurrence, happening anywhere else tonight, now would there?

Well, I’ll tell you, just between us. There is.

Oh, what a grand shocking thing it is to be right, isn’t it Inspector?

I know, because I, Inspector, I, am not really here.

Goodnight, Inspector. This is the very last time we shall meet. Why, you ask? Because, my dear Inspector, you are dead.

To Rome?

I don't know this feeling inside me. It's not jealousy. I'm not the jealous type. It's...disgust. I'm disgusted at him. But its fine. I'm a good girl. And I feel so sick. So sick, infected with my tears. Infected infected, how can I even hope to accomplish anything, when all i ever do is sit here and type? How am i one person, striving towards an undefinable goal, rocketing chaotically through life? I'm going to die. It's simple really. I don't know when, or how, but I'm not afraid. I can't be afraid. I'm terrified. Not of dying..maybe..I don't know. I don't know anything really. I like it here. It's nice. It's cold and bright and sterile. It feels like a hospital. It smells like sleep. I'm tired, I'm angry and I'm lonely. Not for the company of others, I miss my Self. Where is she/he? Where did you go? I need you so much, now more than ever, how can this be a hell hole, disgraceful, impertinent little whore. I hate you. I love you. I want to die. Kill me. Please? No. No. I want to live, i love life. It's amazing. Simply amazing. Complicated, its not. It's fear, and love, and hate, and security, and It's hopeless. I can't feel this. I can't feel the words I'm typing, I can't see myself. I want out. I want out of this shell, I want to roam. To roam freely, to roam. To rome.