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Usually, people would be expecting this big huge drabble from me, all fictional and whatnot with anthro characters or me just out to kill one of my own creations. Not this one. I suppose the purpose of this piece of writing is just to get everything out in the open. Even though it isn't much of a deviation, at this point I couldn't write poetry for crap, I wouldn't be able to make a decent story out of it, and if I'd try to talk to someone, they'd only CONSTANTLY, and CONSTANTLY interrupt me to the point of where I just want to shoot them. That's one of the reasons that I choose not to confide in anyone about my problems; because they don't listen. All they do is take in what you say/type, and then think of a way that they can relate it to themselves. Say I was talking to my best friend at my lunch table, I'd be telling her about how badly my sister last beat me. I'd talk to her, and all she'd say would be "Well, it's not that bad. I get scratches and bruises from my brother every day" FYI: Her brother is seven, he's three feet tall and has down syndrome. I don't think that's quite the same as having an older sister with Bipolar disease, possibly Borderline personality (Which happens to be WORSE than Bipolar diseases).

But, now that my little rant is done, I really started this moreso to talk about my uncle, Borris. He passed away last night at 11: 59 PM Central time (10: 59 PM Mountain time). Borris was actually kinda close to me. I've known him my entire life, literally. And from when I was a baby, until My aunt retired and moved to Phoenix he was always there. Granted, he wasn't the most talkitive, I always kinda looked up to him in a sense. I don't really know, I guess it's because he's a retired lawyer, and people always told me that I'd be a good lawyer. I don't know.

Last night, I was online talking to my Friend, Veri, and my sister, Sevita. I was online because I really couldn't sleep.... I'd tried, but I had a deep gut feeling that I'd been having for a long time. It was that kind of gut feeling that something's going to go horribly, horribly wrong. It's that kind of gut feeling that keeps you awake at night, tossing and turning while insomnia drifts around in your mind, causing the inability to sleep.

Well, I was in the middle of wading through some deep s**t when the phone rang. I froze. Fingers, breathing, blinking. All of it, I just froze. I knew what had happened, even before the caller ID flashed "Joseph Palijan" I knew. Either Borris had just had a mirical and his colour finally went from Hilighter Yellow to the normal gray/fleshy colour, or he died. When I finally gained control, after staring at the Caller ID for two and a half rings My hands bolted forward and knocked the phone off of the stand. Then I knew that I was more distraught than I let myself believe. With a shuddering sigh, I collected myself and picked up the phone, pressed 'Talk,' and let out a soft, scared "Oma?"
As a reply, all she said was "Margaret? Put your daddy on." Her voice was hushed and saddened. That gave everything away, but I still needed to ask. I still needed her to tell me. So I say, "Oma, Oma, just.... What's wrong?" She let out a slow sigh, "Margaret, just but your father on." I needed to know, so the first thing was what I could think of, "He's asleep..... Tell me Oma.... What is it?"

For a minute, everything was silent except for my AIM conversations going off in the background from IMs, "Uncle Borris is dead."

For another moment, all I could do was sit at my chair, frozen in place. A sob rattled in my chest as hot tears brimmed at the edges of my eyes. AIM wasn't bringing me back anymore, the soft doorbell-like noises did nothing to register thought into my mind. What managed to snap me back was the sad, fatigued voice of my German Grandmother. She called my name softly, and I shook my head, shaking it off, "One sec, Oma, I'll take you down to Dad."

She asked if I was crying, I didn't answer. Instead, I just stepped downstairs, taking each step slowly. I turned on the light, ignoring my father's tired and frustrated curses, "It's Oma." I handed him the phone and walked back upstairs.

I went back to Sevita and Veri, and instead of talking, I simply stated that I needed to go and I flipped on my away message.

By now it was about 12: 15, 12: 30. I just stepped out of my Extra room (Where the Computer is) and I stood in the middle of my livingroom. My cat, Oliver came up to me, and we stared at each other for a few seconds, he meowed and flopped over onto his back, rolling around for attention. He knew something was wrong, it's just an instinct that animals have.

As I looked down at him, I collapsed on the floor and hugged his purring body to me, tears streaming freely down my face, "You don't understand, you never will. You're a cat. The only pain you ever feel is when you get hurt. There's no emotional pain, none of it.... Yet you're the only one I can bring myself to truely tell everything to." I told him, my voice shrill with the effort of surpressing the sobs. I whimpered softly and let him lap up the tears on my face.

I cried for ten minutes, and then I got up and I looked down at him, "If I let this get to me, it's going to interfere with everything... I need to keep it back. Pile things on otp of it, and push it away so that I don't think about it." And that's exactly what I did, and what I'm doing,

"Warriors Don't Cry."