AS REPETITION LEADS TO RETENTION LET'S GLANCE AT FIRST KISS Part 5 BEFORE MOVING FORWARD

Having taken a break from storytelling, I've asked the storyteller, who resides inside my head, to refresh our memories by repeating a portion of FIRST KISS Part 5 before we advance to Part 6, and so, without further ado, let’s see what she has to say—

With time spent in reflection, I’ve come to see that certain details, necessary to fleshing out our current story, remained unprocessed until March of 2019, suggesting that my objectivity concerning Annie's first kiss may still be somewhat fuzzy.  So in hopes of portraying moments of emotional reactivity between Annie and Joseph with a greater sense of clarity, let's imagine ourselves in the lobby of the theater of life about to re-enter a real auditorium once a 15 minute intermission has passed so as to reclaim our seats just before the lights dim and the curtain rises revealing grown up Annie (namely me) perching on a rafter on one side of the stage (like the narrator in Our Town), looking pensive as though reminding my current self to remember that at the age of twelve, the conscious portion of my brain had no clue that one day I’d feel need to muster a whale of courage to identify yesteryear’s most fearsome experiences (most of which still remain repressed within a tumultuous state of subconscious turmoil to this very day), and while the narrator of this specific story reflects over the fact that a detailed account of moments spent alone with a pedophile will remain buried alive within my brain's innermost sanctum where secrets too terrifying to reveal to myself have been deeply compressed within a tightly locked state of hair triggered, subconscious anxiety, I can see why Mother Nature saw fit to fortify my twelve year old processor’s hold onto sanity by erecting a wall of denial that served as a mental block, severing the conscious portion of my memory from recalling even one detail of a series of pain wracked experiences that proved so emotionally wounding as to have offered my fight, freeze or flee instincts sound reason to become hypersensitive to any hint of Stranger Danger closing in on me before I’d begun to meet Joseph on a daily basis, and as long as the entirety of this mental block remains impenetrable, Annie’s pre-teen nervous system will feel need to stand guard as though to protect her body and the wounded portion of her psyche from re-experiencing anything that might be perceived as a physical assault or emotional attack.

(Oh wait—I need to interrupt the narrator to bring this vital detail to your attention—each time grown up Annie (speaking from the rafters above the stage) begins to address the audience, prebuescent Annie, Joseph, Pixie and King will be seen on center stage, flash frozen into a statue-like state of suspended animation—for example, if, at this moment in time, the spotlight turns toward Joseph, we’ll see a tall, blond, blue eyed twelve year old boy standing quite still with one arm raised, his open palm positioned to stroke Annie’s lustrous dark hair ...  and now, having set the scene in which a pair of inexperienced hearts are wholly locked within young love's magic spell for the very first time, let’s swing the spotlight away from the leads in this play up toward the rafters above the stage where adult Annie’s reflective tone of voice has readied itself to project hindsight’s deeply profound sense of insight-driven clarity throughout the auditorium—inclusive of the very last row—as every ear in attendance awaits a detailed account of whatever our narrator’s memory, empowered by intuition, feels need to reveal as she reflects more deeply into junior high and beyond—)

During sixth grade, I'd invited Scarlett and Rhett to snuggle under the covers with me where each stage of their torrid love affair introduced my preteen psyche to the persistence of unrequited passions, and as Margaret Mitchell's command of the written word suffused each chapter of this page turner, concerning lives affected by The Civil War, with vivid descriptions of emotional fireworks bursting with life, my chest would contract with bated breath whenever detailed descriptions of lust seeking satisfaction challenged my chastity to maintain a subconscious cap on my libido, which, though deeply repressed from conscious awareness, couldn't help but feel utterly rapt each time Scarlett and Rhett's impassioned reactions to each other set my head to spinning until, finally, the sandman would tiptoe into my room, sprinkling my mind with dreams of love and romance, which were not theirs but mine.  And each night, as my eyelids grew heavy, my soul, having been tucked safely into my solitary twin bed, felt reason to smile at seeing my conscious self drift into dreamland where visions of romance filtered into my personal fantasies so naturally as to taste as tantalizing as sugar plums dangling just beyond my reach, showcasing Joseph holding me in his arms as he and I dance the hours away at a sock hop where, drawn toward the shadowy corner of the gym, we experience the magical sparks of love’s first kiss ...

When my absorption of pages of love scenes whet the appetite of a young girl's heartfelt longing to engage in a romance of her own, every fiber of my being, yearning to emulate Scarlett’s impassioned, academy-award winning emotional interactions with Rhett on the silver screen, saw me attending the film, GONE WITH THE WIND, not once.  Not twice—but more than a handful of times as if I'd chosen to purchase a ticket to ride in their emotional roller coaster within a darkened theater every time the timeless nature of their star crossed love story rolled back into town.

By the time I was a high school senior, my processor had absorbed every chapter of their story (which never got old) so many times that the unlikely friendship, which drew Scarlett’s fiery spirit and Melanie’s soulful gentleness together as though blending their opposing traits into one complicated human being, had soaked so deeply within my subconscious as to represent both sides of my conflicting character traits, and though both sides of human nature vied for dominance deep inside, my well practiced line of self control kept Scarlett's impassioned nature so well hidden within the wings of my mind that the conscious portion of my awareness acknowledged only Melanie's selfless, sweetly generous spirit emanating from within my depths while Scarlett’s naturally impassioned need to emerge and star on center stage was denied for decades to come.  And just as love scenes on the silver screen, during the late fifties, faded to dark just before the impetuous nature of sexual tension had fully unleashed impassioned reactivity between he and she, anything that had so much as hinted at a boy’s experimental attempts to go beyond first base with me stimulated the darkly traumatized portion of my processor to wave red flags of spiking anxiety igniting sparks of emotional static to race through my processor, which, likened to red hot electrodes probing hotly into emotional wounds repressed within my subconscious, had spontaneously shocked male interest to back defensively away after kissing me ...

On the other hand, as soon as lights dimmed during Saturday matinees, my psyche felt free to release deeply repressed, impassioned emotions to surge naturally throughout every hyper-alert nerve in my body.  I'd cringed to see Judd Fry grasp Laurie's innocence into his lustful arms in the darkened smoke house on Aunt Eller's Oklahoma farm, scaring her half to death.  On the other hand, when clean cut Curly pulled Laurie in for her first impassioned kiss, my eyes closed while imagining myself swept naturally into Joseph's embrace, claiming my first taste of his lips.  When it came time to leap out of the surrey with the fringe on top and ride the carousel, I cried my eyes out to see Billy Bigalow fall on that knife, leaving his newly impregnated bride, Julie, walking alone through a storm with her head held high suffering in silence as this devastated young widow, now a social outcast, births her dead sweetheart's daughter, no loving arm around her waist pulling her close so as to ease the depths of her pain—which Julie represses behind her sweet nature upon being abandoned by friends and neighbors, because her heart knows that her precious child's spirit is in need of her mother's smile to shine forth reassuringly while rocking her baby safely to sleep in an unfriended cottage.  OH! Cruel!  Cruel World!

While June was busting out all over, I was growing accustomed to accepting the restraints of my first 'training' bra straps which the boys in my class were seen testily snapping, left and right.  We even had a math teacher, whose surges of unbridled testosterone spewed lewd comments while casting lecherous eyes pointedly at the chests of classmates who'd suffered the embarrassment of having been prematurely stacked until his creepy advances, reported to the principal, saw him sacked.

Though the subconscious portion of my processor was busily absorbing all of that ‘folderol’ springing up around me—anything that hinted of sexual interest directed at me boomeranged off of my brain's defensive wall of denial, suggesting that not one conscious train of thought concerning my budding sensuality (much less sexuality) made its way through the mental fog surrounding the cocoon that protected the traumatized portion of my processor from anything resembling clarity.  I'm not kidding.

As a matter of fact, I've learned that the traumatized portion of a child's psyche will remain stuck in the dark at whatever stage of life a pedophile's touch had stimulated the defense system of the inexperienced brain to signal the frontal lobe to flick its switch from on to off, freeing the limbic system to usurp control and reign supreme until the terrifying presence (or specter) of Stranger Danger has past—and as not one conscious memory of those mind-blowing experiences had imprinted into the frontal lobe of my brain, everything that had boggled my mental connection to clarity transferred into subconscious memory, and that's no joke.

Upon reflecting over that last scientific fact, concerning scary secrets we keep from ourselves once the brain’s limbic system switches the conscious portion of our processors to off, we can see why, while watching my seventh grade friends swoon over The King of Rock and Roll’s swiveling hips, my defense system, standing at high alert, denies my brain any conscious clue as to what Elvis's body language is conveying to his audience.  As long as my defense system acts like a trampoline deflecting any thought of sex away from my processor's conscious sense of awareness, I am left to perceive of the emotional reactions of teen aged girls as being every bit as nuts as I think is true of The King's singing style, which looks so silly to me as to be comedic.  Then upon arriving home, still feeling confused about my friends' emotionality, I'd encountered my mother and grandma's interchange of frowning remarks concerning this rock star's outrageous gyrations.  However, as their huffy rebuffs concerning his improper hip swiveling maneuvers never referred to sex, their reactions left me as much in the dark as was true of the natural reactions of my friends.  Seriously, throughout puberty, I'd had no more clue as to why Elvis (or the Beatles) made my friends feel weak in the knees than I'd understood parental reactions, directing my friends to switch their TVs to another channel.

Emotional complexity, based in the processor's subconscious absorption of deeply buried trauma, is one reason why contrasting character traits develop.  And so we come to see why I'd longed to experience romance while defensively deleting the very existence of impassioned sexuality from my processor's conscious awareness.

If you still entertain the notion that ‘puppy love’ suggests preteens adoring each other dispassionately then hopefully, you won't take offense at my suggestion that the conscious portion of your processor may not have a clue as to when (or why) your defense system fools with your sense of clarity as is still true of mine, from time to time.  In short, denial comes and goes.  At times, our processors switch tracks from conscious clarity to subconscious anxiety spiking so quickly that we lose all track of what has just been said or what we were about to reply in response.

So anyway, one day at twilight, a pair of tightly knit friends are seen moseying down the alley, side by side, both seemingly relaxed while chatting, back and forth, about this and that when suddenly he stops walking, so she follows suit.  As Joseph turns toward me, I—feeling sparks of tension begin to crackle—stand statue-like while we, both holding leashes, stare into each other's blue eyes until much to my befuddled amazement, Joseph’s free hand rises as though in slo-mo until his open palm hovers momentarily so close to my head that you could have knocked me over with a feather when, while stroking my hair, which is seen flowing freely past my shoulders, I hear him say:  Gosh, it's even softer than I'd thought—and next thing I know he—

Come on!  You know I'm not going to spoil FIRST KISS Part 6 by completing that sentence, right now—I mean think about it—he and I were just kids walking our dogs—right?

So what might this boy's brain feel stimulated to do with a girl like me who (perceiving myself as much too unattractive to draw a popular guy's heart to melt into mine) has taken little note of this reality:  Over the past several months, my body has been in the process of shaping up—for the better ...

ARE YOU A HOPELESS ROMANTIC OR A HOPEFUL REALIST?

If you are a hopeless romantic, your mindset cannot reconsider
An attitude, which has historically focused your attention upon
Coveting that which may not be yours for the asking or taking

If you are a hopeful realist, your mindset feels intuitively
Unwavering from directing a positively focused attitude toward
Fortifying a host of inner strengths inclusive of courage, patience
Humility and resilience to work in tandem with
A strong spirited sense of creativity until your heartfelt vision of
Achieving the ‘Impossible Dream’ is your just reward—

If you are a reformed hopeless romantic named Annie, you still
Have need to work toward heeding this reality:
Though I know not to hold myself responsible for maintaining
The happiness of my love ones, knowing is logical while
Feeling is emotional, and as I habitually feel deeply empathetic
Whenever a loved one's sliding scale of happiness takes a nose dive
I must remind myself to put on my oxygen mask first or else
I'll be gasping for breath as if his/her pain is my own, and
As I am ‘people who love people’, that's way more pain than
My spirit can swallow, suppress or repress and still smile

Though wearied and in need of rest, my processor continues to
Feel drawn toward absorbing yesterday's lengthy string of
Insights ever more deeply in hopes of staving off a self imposed
Sense of inner tension from ballooning, leaving my think tank
Feeling so ungrounded as to be seen reeling in need of
Relief from layers of unresolved stress, which, having been
Repressed, represent an over abundance of
Unfinished Familial Business that periodically experiences
Sound reason to pound away at cracks in my self protective
Wall of denial until a darkly cloudy cluster of migrainee
Signals my processor’s power of intuitive thought to seek
Time spent in solitude so as to reflect quietly over
Recent events in hopes of enticing my subconscious to
Shine a spotlight upon an insight-driven sense of clarity, pinpointing
The main source of an inner conflict that feels like
A pair of cymbals crashing discordantly inside my head, repeatedly—
And—Holy smokes!  Guess what?  Here comes that
Coveted insight spotlighting the inner conflict, which
Over these past several days, has been in need of
Identification:  Each time my long-standing emotionally
Hyper vigilant  M.O. suggests—DO SOMETHING!—
My newfound sense of clarity suggests that I muster
The courage and patience necessary to groom my Fixer
To BECOME a positively focused, supportive influence on
The sidelines so as to remain so well grounded as to
Accurately absorb whatever is about to happen on
The playing field of each of my loved one’s lives —
Not an easy task for 'a family fixer' to pull off, and that’s
Especially true for ‘a fixer’ who had coached
A team made up of a trio of rookies to advance
Season by season, from the minors (while each was
Still a beginner adult in need of absorbing his coach’s
Well grounded guidance) until recent years when
They transitioned to the majors as fathers, suggesting
Their being called up to ‘the show’

If you wonder why my processor feels need to review
Clustering insights (published yesterday), repeatedly, my answer
Would be twofold:  Firstly, gaining a conscious awareness of
Clustering insights shortens the painwracked stay of
Clustering migraines, and secondly, with time spent in review
My word choices improve, easing your way through
Yesterday’s congested trains of intuitive thought, which
My processor felt need to cough up in hopes of encouraging
Both of us to absorb clusters of insight more deeply with
Each reading, and as repetition heightens levels of
Retention, my newly spotlighted inner conflict has been
Clarified, offering my wearied brain sound reason to hang
A gone fishing sign around my neck with an arrow pointing at
My head, and as the emergence of this light hearted moment of
Levity signifies a sense of mental rebalance recalibrating naturally
I hope your processor will join mine as, together, we utilize
A host of inner strengths to draw today’s insight-driven
Intuitive train of thought into the next rest station that
Is welcoming our thought processors to relax while transitioning into
The appropriate roles that match our present stages of life, an
Once you and I gain the clarity to pinpoint whom we’re meant to
Actively coach on the playing field of life vs whom we’re meant to
Offer positively focused ecouragement from the stands on
The sidelines, our spirits will ring aloud with
A healthy and hearty—High Ho Silver—Hooray!
PS
At this stage of my life, I’ll continue to encourage one and all
As to coaching—I’ll pitch to my sons—only if asked
As to my grandkids, I’ll pitch during one-on-one time
As to everyone else, I’ll relax in the stands and be
A supportive fan—and that’s my game plan unless experience
Offers my processor sound reason for reflective consideration

MEMOIRIST? BLOGGER? BLENDING

Having come home from the coast following my brief stay at
Barry’s where, as usual, I felt deeply gratified to have been so
Warmly welcomed by our loved ones, today began with Ravi
Snuggling in my arms after we’d enjoyed a sleepover, which
Pleasured both of our hearts—however, by mid morning
Light-headedness punctuated with mild nausea developed, so
Feeling need to lie down, I reluctantly called Steven and asked if
He could pick up Ravi, who, upon hearing that she was about to
Go home early, asked to cuddle with me while watching
A movie on my iPad, and her sweet request was
So heartfelt that my inner need for one-on-one time with
My introspective side melted straight away, suggesting that
Rather than being picked up, Ravi, cuddling with Gramma
Watched The Lion King for the umpteenth time after which
Her parents’ timely arrival offered my grand daughter’s spirit
Reason to smile upon being told that they planned to drive to
One of Ravi’s favorite outdoor spots for lunch where
A fountain installed expressly for the enjoyment of small fry
Awaited Ravi’s arrival along with the promise of ice cream for
Dessert, and with that child-friendly plan dancing through her head
Ravi’s attitude had no need of persuasion to leap from my side into
Her father’s strong arms, and once they’d left, following
Our traditional group hug, my light-headedness slid straight into
A migraine that saw me in need of the downtime that mind control had
Placed on hold over these past several days when ‘Gramma Annie’ took
Precedence over ‘introspective Annie’ until such time as— right now
Because I’m perceiving the migraine as being indicative of
The intuitive portion of my processor feeling swollen with need to be
Set free to release the cluster of insights that is, hopefully, as hot to
Pop as popcorn out of subconscious storage into conscious awareness
And with that insight clearly in mind, let’s see what pops out next:
Last week was the anniversary of my mother’s death
Last week, I received word that an extended family member was
Hospitalized for pneumonia at the same time that a second
Family member (with whom the first has been at war for
Years) flew into town, and as my personal perspective has
Chosen to walk a tightrope between these two that’s still
Fraught with emotional sparks of tension based in my decision
Not to take sides, I felt a latent sense of yesteryear’s
Stress arise as is my patterned reaction whenever
Unresolved emotionality concerning this pair collides like
Crashing cymbals inside my mind, and while
The emergence of discordant emotional distress has been
Churning subconsciously, my niece has been in
The process of moving into an apartment that’s about
45 minutes way from my home so as to live nearer to
Her place of employment; however just before her move was
Complete, my niece was let go.  Next up, David called to
Confer with his Orthopedist dad, relating that
Shoulder pain has been diagnosed as calciification of
The joint—and though most of these issues do not prove to be
Biggies, all released at once must be stimulating unhealed
Memories of yesteryear’s unresolved crises to knock against
My wall of denial, causing me to feel as I did when each of
These loved ones had sent out SOS signals in need of my
Solution seeking attentiveness, simultaneously, and as
I’d valued my role of Family Fixer, back then (having had
No clue that my level of self esteem had depended upon
Being a successful, super-duper-people-fixer extradinaire, I’d
Spread myself so thin that the solution-seeking portion of
My ever-ready processor experienced burn-out years before
I’d absorbed this reality:  The overwhelming nature of
Having taken on all of my loved ones’ personal and/or
Professional problems, whether physical or
Emotional in nature (or both), had proved beyond
My control to change for the better, and
As much of yesteryear’s extended-family angst had
Worsened soon after my father’s death (before
My need to recover from PTSD was diagnosed), I’d
Not yet gained insight into the degree of undeserved
Guilt that had been subconsciously buried alive when
I was a child of three witnessing my parents’ agony
During the aftermath of my baby sister’s sudden death
And thus do we gain insight into why—beginning
At that crucial stage of early personality
Development, lasting throughout most of my life
I’d unknowingly held my ever-ready smile responsible for
Helping everyone in need (including strangers) to see
Their way clear to creating change for the better whenever
Anything went awry, and as I came to be seen as
The extended family’s ‘first responder’ none of us had
A conscious clue of the fact that it has never been
My place to do more than offer my loved ones’ spirits
Heartfelt support during their times of trouble

On the other hand, common sense suggests
The fact that as I’d held myself accountable for being
The family fixer since the age of three
A portion of my brain will always react with
Empathetic angst such as that which has been
Gnawing away at my host of acquired strengths over
These past three of weeks until the intuitive portion of
My processor sought time spent in solitude in hopes of
Freely and clearly listing a 'set' of  empathetic angsts, which
Have been pounding away against my wall of denial after being
Compressed into a many layered, darkly clouded, cluster of
Memories such as those that revealed themselves to me within
Today’s comprehensive train of thought, and now, with
Hopes of switching mental tracks away from feeling as
Though my head is ballooning, swelling with
Yesteryear’s unfinished business while being squeezed within
A self imposed vice, I feel need to relieve myself of
Self imposed pressure by consciously compartmentalizing
The convergence of each of these partially healed
Painwracked files, which had sound reason to
Fly open, all at once, within the depths of
My processor until today’s crystallizing absorption of clarity
Offered up by my intuitive intelligence, gave me
Sound reason to believe that my brain’s contrasting (and
Thus highly complex) functionalities have been in
Need of a tune up as proves true from time to time in
Order to operate as a healthy well oiled whole, suggestive of
The fact that, once again, my processor has been attentively
Engaged in the active process of readying my intelligence to
Embrace another leap of faith forward as I continue to
Advance toward healing myself more thoroughly from
PTSD under the astute guidance of a well trained
Compassionate therapist, who encourages me to remember
That the resurgence of every pain, which has not been fully
Processed following complicated times of crises when
The fixer managed to keep my head on straight, has need to
Be re-experienced with this caveat: As long as my attitude of
Positive focus remains intact, my spirit can rely upon a host of
Inner strengths to stare down yesteryear’s unprocessed
Vulnerabilities while I continue to absorb an ever more
Thorough sense of the on-going process of
Emotional maturation that proves necessary if I am to
Continue to muster the courage and patience to
Heal from PTSD to the fullest degree that reality will
Allow a mortal being to achieve, and now that today’s
Intuitive train of thought has clarified the illusive nature of that
Last deeper truth for me, here are several awarenesses, which
I believe have been percolating (with an ever intensifying
Degree of urgency) within the inner sanctum of my mind in
Hopes of refueling my spirit with the gumption to experience
Yet another leap of faith toward embracing each next step of
Personal growth, which will culminate in heightening
My awareness of every person’s need to fortify current levels of
Patience so as to contain our natural emotional reactivity to
A loved one’s unrestrained explosivity most especially at
Those times when the unexpected convergence of
Several files, all entitled Unfinished Familial Business, fly open
Inside our heads simultaneously, stimulating our processors to
Experience such an overwhelmed sense of emotional overload as to
Find it nearly impossible to function with common sense intact so
As to keep ‘bigger pictures’ clearly within the forefront of
Our minds, and since my processor has been doing
Exactly that, over these past three weeks while, at the same time
Recovering energy spent fighting a flu bug right before
My retired fixer felt stimulated to re-emerge upon
Re-experiencing familial overload, which simulating
Yesteryear’s cluster of crises alerted my defense system to
Release repressed anxiety that taxed my conscious mind during
These past several weeks, and thus has today’s insight-driven
Intuitive train of thought offered us a comprehensive
Understanding as to why my storyteller felt need to withdraw
Into the wings until my processor had clearly identified and
Reorganized files entitled Unfinished Familial Business—whew!

As to the lifetime of sensual pleasures that the pedophile had
Stolen from my conscious awareness until my intuitive quest to
Retrieve deeper truths illuminated my expanded perspective of
Highly personalized experiences, which my defense system had
Whitewashed in the past so as to separate the secret annex of
My inner fury from contaminating my youthful spirit’s
Conscious smiling self—tis better to spit out each latent taste of
Bitterness —which has recently been eating away at my spirit’s
Naturally joyful perspective of love and life—than to leave
Bitter herbs to fester within my mind as I continue to age ...

In addition to my having numbed myself to reality by delaying
The natural darkening of today’s expanded perspective of
My childhood’s most traumatizing experiences until
My present level of emotional maturity could
Handle emergent anger and sadness with common sense intact
We must also address my internal reactions to the fact that
Our nation has unleashed a raging, sharp toothed
Toddler, whose infantile tantrums continue to darken
The reputation of The White House to the extent of
Blinding his followers, whose emotional immaturity is
Every bit as openly on display as is true of trump’s
Being that the processors of white sheeted bullies are
Too busy being brutish to gain the merest hint of
Insight necessary to consciously acknowledge
The timeless universality of this next deeper truth:
If elected leadership can’t balance emotion with logic then
It stands to reason that our nation will be led toward
Colliding into trump’s Wall, which proves too dense to
Make sense of a five billion dollar expenditure that
Disregards shovels tunneling under a monolithic
Structure worshipped by a leader blind to lying through
His teeth so often that he can’t see his way clear of
Defensive denial so as to discipline his employment of
Personal power by consciously identifying his void of
Compassionate listening skills without which leadership’s
Decisions do not even begin to consider whatever truly
Proves best for our nation at large, and that insight proves
Most especially true when need to re-strengthen our present
Vulnerabilities depends upon leadership’s capability to
Reflect conscientiously and objectively rather than
Stewing over personal slights so subjectively as to
Cruelly condemn millions of hard scrabble
Countrymen, women and children to barely survive while
The bulging wallets of the 1% at the top of the mountain
Maintain private jets that fly so high as to land on
Personal yachts rivaling cruise ships in size where those
Infected with the Midas touch and their chronies frolic in
The sun until caught red-handed holding tightly to
Fistfuls of dollars that rightfully belong to the vulnerable
Majority of hard working citizens mentioned above—
Only way to stop bullies from reigning supreme over all is to
Unite the masses and take Midas down, starting at the top!

Want a headache the size of a migraine to shrink in
Size until your processor feels so relieved of layers of
Tightly suppressed stress as to clarify your need to rebalance your
Personal perspective of life and love to match reality instead of
Continuing to torture yourself with romanticized visions of
That which we believe love and life ‘should’ be?  Find a creative
Non-surly, heart healthy manner in which to voice
Repressed angst, which left to its own de/vices layers up behind
The human brain’s wall of denial until a tidal wave of
Overload, squeezing itself through the cracks in our defensive
Walls, shapes into a mega-sized migraine that just won’t quit pounding
Away at a door in denial’s wall until your think tank’s romanticized
Pasteurized version of reality awakens your need (and mine) to
Open that door so as to free and retune unrealistic attitudes in
Similar fashion to my need to acknowledge and retune my own ...

I mean, seriously—how can we expect insights to
Emerge, enlightening the conscious portion of our minds so as to
Lift our spirits’ deflating sense of disappointment until
An unexpected uprising of yesteryear’s dust storms has been
Swept away by the rising crest of emotional intelligence with which
Your processor’s sense of clarity (and mine) is equipped to
Develop, over time—and thank God for that, because the portion of
The subconscious in which files entitled Unfinished Familial Business
Are stored can be likened to a junk drawer, which if not cleaned out, from
Time to time, grows so disorderly as to become near to
Impossible to sort through and reorganize so as
To clarify which cluster of mental irritants has surfaced, uninvited
To plague the conscious portion of our minds—anew—Hey!
Guess what?  Migraine resolved—as to whether that will still
Be true upon awakening, tomorrow—please stay tuned as time will tell

LOVE SOAKED SMILES EASE UNPROCESSED SORROWS

Whatever has been brewing within a subconscious pocket of
My brain is feeling more sorrowful than I can constrain in
A well contained manner, so while interacting with loved ones
I remind myself that little is expected of me other than
Offering up smiles soaked in love, demanding
Little energy on my part, because my capacity to shower
Loved ones with generous doses of affection feels as natural as
Breathing in and breathing out, so though I continue to feel
More like hibernating than socializing, I chose to fly solo to
The coast in celebration of Tony’s ninth birthday where
Along with my present need for introspection, I’ve tucked
A long-last smile, an abundance of warm nuturing hugs and
The upside of my spirit into my suitcase so that no matter
What’s perculating within the wellspring of my brain (where
Experiential wisdom, passed down through the ages, resides)
My current level of emotional intelligence (which continues to
Concentrate upon gaining access to the insight that’s not yet
Bubbled up to the surface of my conscious awareness), knows
Full well that my faith will not waiver from believing that
A spotlight will highlight an insight driven
Train of thought that’s bound to filter through
My wall of denial in its own good time
And with that positively focused thought in mind
My need to self-soothe a latent sorrow, yet to be consciously
Processed, reminds me to minimize frustration by calling forth
Fresh dollops of patience so as to channel
The introspective nature of my attitude toward
Smiling with sincerity at my good fortune to be
Celebrating my grandson’s birthday amidst a host of
Loved ones, whose busy lives ask litle more at
This stage of my life than the gentle presence of my love ...

Happy Birthday Tony

Kudos to Ray, who earned the Principal's Award for Determination

MY EXISTENTIAL AUTHENTICITY HAS PASSED THE POINT OF FAKING IT

Rather than detailing where my head has spent these past several days
I’ll simply copy and paste the end of my last train of thought—
Fortunately,, my processor’s sensitive connection to intuitive trains of thought
Saves my existential authenticity from feeling need to ‘Fake it' whenever
Common sense suggests placing the transparency of
My personal vulnerabilities in time out so as to offer my loved ones
The host of my heart’s inner strengths until I can venture ever more
Introspectively into the inner sanctum of my subconscious, again ...

And now, having reminded you of my plan to refocus
My mind so as to ‘venture ever more introspectively into
The inner sanctum of my subconscious in hopes of  plucking
Out an insight that will relieve my heart of repressed grief’—
Seeping out in spurts suggesting my holding tank must be
Filled to overflowing and thus in need of circumventing
Bursting. So as to flood my spirit with repressed angst
Hopefully you can understand why my storyteller has been
Standing patiently in the wings, awaiting an intuitive cue to
Lift the curtain and reveal Annie’s and Joseph’s
FIRST KISS Part 6 on center stage

Now that my spirit’s need to vent yesteryear’s undertow of
Sadness has begun to surfaced as though demanding
My conscious awareness to grow ever more attentive to
Emotional turmoil seeping through the cracks of
My brain's innermost sanctum, I feel hopeful that this
Unexpected leakage of latent grief is being naturally spent
Suggesting that by freeing my whole self to relax into
This process that’s long overdue, the cloudy nature of
Repressed angst, which has recently been foggying my mind
Will not take years to fully resolve—I mean, at this late stage of
Life, how many years, unclouded by unprocessed angst, are
Mine to fully enjoy in good health?  And with the complex
Nature of that train of thought in mind, I'll place my faith in
This belief:  My need to consciously ascend to each next
Level of emotional maturation is, once again, underway, and
As heartfelt gain is universally known to follow growing pains
I’ve decided to call forth an intuitive sense of patience so as to
Free my inner mind to focus upon subconscious readiness to
Spotlight an insight that will remain beyond
My conscious awareness until readiness to gain access into
A secret annex behind my wall of denial where anothet
Deeper truth, too complex for a child’s processor to
Fathom, lies dormant awaiting my current level of
Emotional intelligence to embrace the courage necessary to
Absorb an insight-driven intuitive train of thought, which upon
Full disclosure will simplify the emotional complexity of
Yesteryear’s conundrum experienced by a girl and a boy who’d
Cared more deeply for each other than words could express, and
Once this insight-laden train of thought signals readiness to
Slide forth from my processor, fully baked at long last
My storyteller will feel naturally stimulated to lift the curtain and
Release Part six of FIRST KISS, based in this belief:  My brain’s
Intuitive (innate) potential to heal itself of childhood trauma
Continues to coax each next uprising of latent angst to emerge based in
The fact that my adult intelligence grows ever more aware of childhood
Eexperiences that had injured my sense of self worth, based upon
My misinterpretation of defensive reactions imparted in my direction by
Loved ones, who’d loved me as deeply as I’d loved them, and as
I’ve come to believe that our mutually reactive defensiveness has
Remained repressed in an unprocessed state my reconnection to
Clear headedness feels consciously in need of repair, and so
We come to see why the intuitive nature of my intelligence readies
The introspective side of my spirit to dive ever more deeply into
My past until sound reason to surface with insights, sparking bursts of
Positively focused mental energy, injects my self image with
A newly restored sense of wholeness, and once my current sense of
Self feels securely restored, my processor offers my storyteller
A sense of ‘all clear ahead’ as a cue to pen the next insight driven
Portion of the story at hand, thus gifting each of us with
An intuitive account of the purity of prepubescent innocence, which had
So sadly been damaged within my psyche before Joseph’s unexpected
Hormone-driven emotional reaction to my budding femininity served to
Burst through his half-baked connection to self control ...

THE BLOGGER INSIDE MY HEAD FEELS NEED TO SAY ...

Throughout this past week, my processor’s not felt clear enough to
Advance readily toward First Kiss Part 6  Why not?
I believe the culprit responsible for my mental fogginess
Goes by the name of Denial, offering me reason to
Wonder which subconscious file(s) of unfinished business has
Flown open inside my brain, and with that probability in mind
It’s wait-and-see-time for me, because several theories are still in
The process of percolating, and adding to my mental congestion
The teacher in me continues to heed an intuitive need to
Work, daily, toward clarifying complex trains of thought embedded
Within First Kiss Part 5, so—holy smokes!  Wait a sec!—Suddenly
I'm feeling as if my foggy sense of mental fatigue may be in
The process of lifting as the spotlight of insight illuminates
The sad fact that my budding enjoyment of womanhood was
Nipped before an innocent child had ever had
A conscious chance to begin to comprehend (much less enjoy)
The treasure chest of natural pleasures stolen by
A pedophile years before the promise of my femininity could have
Developed the healthy readiness to experience a radiant release of
Physical passion at the appropriate stage in my life when
Along with my peers, my attraction to the opposite sex would have
Bloomed wholesomely (rather than defensively), and now, having spent
The past week laboring, unknowingly, to give birth to
The insight above, which just slipped out of a secret hiding place inside
My mind, I can openly embrace yet another deeper truth concerning
This latent sense of sadness, which has been repressed from
Conscious awareness throughout every stage of my life until today, and
Having gained another slice of knowledge empowering reflection to
Draw forth a more accurate self-portraiture of the truth seeker whom
A confounded little girl was destined to become, ‘tis time to
Clear my head of intuitive wanderings, which guide
My intelligence toward identifying and releasing repressed feelings of
Grief concerning youthful pleasures pirated away at least for
The remainder of today, because the highly personal nature of
This most recent I nsight has awakened a portion of the trauma that
I'd not had a conscious clue of concealing from myself until
Feelings of loss began to seep through my wall of denial mere
Moments ago, and now that this awareness of latent sadness is
Clearly unmasked, I plan to call upon my line of emotional control to
Switch tracks away from feeling downcast toward lifting my spirit as
Gracefully as possible, because family from the Midwest will be ringing
My doorbell within the hour, and as I aim to embrace each one with
The heartfelt warmth of a natural smile,  I’ll need to make sound use of
My noggin, over these next sixty minutes, so as to redirect
My focus away from sorrow toward joyful memories of
Times gone by that clearly arouse wholesome feelings of
Self worth denied to my mental state of foggy fatigue over these past
Few deeply introspective days—Whew!
Fortunately, my processor’s sensitive connection to intuitive trains of thought
Saves my existential authenticity from feeling need to
‘Fake it' whenever common sense suggests placing the transparency of
My personal vulnerabilities in time out so as to offer my loved ones
The host of my heart’s inner strengths until I can venture ever more
Introspectively into the inner sanctum of my subconscious, again ...

CONCERNING THIS WEEK’S ABSENCE FROM WRITING—

From time to time, life interferes with writing—for instance
Last week saw my energy slaying an army of microscopic organisms
Then, several days of brain fog ensued while energy exhausted recouped
Upon recovering, I chose to undergo my second dose of shingles vaccine—
Why?  This immunization is known to gift the recipient with
Flu symptoms, so rather than fully replenishing energy only to
Send my life force into combat, again, I figured the time was ripe to
Extend feeling poorly for just a bit longer so as to
Be so well in a day or two or three as to fully enjoy feeling
Swell for quite a spell—you see, upon receiving the first dose of
Serum in this series of two painful innoculations (OUCH!)
Will and I felt certain that feeling flu-ish would not affect either of
Us—Why not?  Because our minds had been empowered with
The presence of positive attitudes, which denied the probability that
Our bodies were apt to react in similar fashion to that which has
Been true of the general population until we found ourselves
Feeling so fluish as to heed inner need to cancel dinner plans with
Friends, so this time around, we readied ourselves for
Feeling fluish by precautionarily scheduling injections of
This powerful vaccine prior to a quiet weekend in which
We’d planned to remain at home, downing Tylenol and
Doing little more than relaxing with a good read, and now that
Last week’s virus and this week’s second shingle's shot are in the past
I plan to park my passion for writing in time out until
The first spark of my spirit’s eternal flame signals my processor that
Energy, having been fully replenished, feels readied to release
My story teller to seek out my computer, where FIRST KISS part 6
Awaits to pour forth from memory as naturally as was true of parts 1-5
Oh yes—one last thing before my active brain switches tracks toward
Encouraging my processor to fully embrace life as it presents itself so as to
Free my sense of wholeness to heal more quickly by relaxing completely:
In full disclosure of the truth, the teacher in me felt need to sneak out
During down time to tighten up FIRST KISS Part 5 What Just Happened?

BOOK ONE—CHAPTER 3 FIRST KISS Part 5. What Just Happened?

This story concerning two friends is meant to illustrate a highly significant point, so—
Please do not mistake First Kiss for a Jr. Harlequin Romance.  

All too often, loving parents believe the arousal of passion between a boy and a girl carries no more lasting effect upon two lives than is true of a pair of puppies tussling around on a sun kissed lawn.  This makes me ask:  Why does one generation after another dismiss impassioned emotional reactions ignited during adolescence—when hormones are known to rage—as NO BIGGIE?  Does this belittling attitude spotlight denial assuaging adult fears about fumblings going on between boys and girls behind closed doors?

Perhaps this narrow mindset, dismissing the lasting effects of first love, is based in parental denial of the speed with which each stage of their lives is flashing by.  How scary is it to realize that before we blink twice, children reciting ABC’s blossom into teens, who grow up to rule a world gone mad where doting parents are now seen as doddering old fogies, whose smarts can voice little more than: B-I-N-G-O—B-I-N-G-O—AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME—OH!

How many classic fears, layering up deep inside middle aged minds, lock the doggy door on the fact that reality will not stop barking to be let in no matter how stubbornly our defense systems dismiss? deny? ignore the throes of first love and travails of teenaged despair?

Why doth the attitudes of the sandwiched generation disrespectfully disparage the authenticity of juniors and seniors?

If we surmise that what goes around comes around then when will insight turn it’s spotlight on the fact that the absorption of belittling attitudes from one generation to the next is the name of this narrow minded, anger-provoking game.  All one must do is observe angry adults acting as immature as children are wont to do to note that parents often have no more clue as to what’s best for their kids than they know what’s best for themselves—

Upon returning home from a Shakespearean performance, how quickly do we 'forget’ insight-driven words of wisdom flowing brilliantly from the quill of The Bard as being of universal value, today?  How deeply mired in denial’s mental fog must we be to deflect rather than seriously reflect over the fact that Juliette be 13 and Romeo 14 when the lives of this pair of star-crossed lovers end as prematurely as proves true of their smoldering passion's tragic demise?

How many lives may be spared, today, from feeling lost in a negatively focused, emotionally distorted mental fog if conscientious absorption on the part of parents grows ever more aware of need to deepen listening skills so as to heed the fact that their kids' emotional needs hold as much weight as their own?

How might the family structure come undone when parents deny this timeless reality:  From one generation to the next, the human brain's defense system is preprogrammed to repress deeper truths in hopes of clipping the wingspan of youth's naturally impassioned voice from declaring aloud—tis my birthright to love whom I love while carving my path toward developing into my existential adult self.

In truth, at the age of twelve, I'd have given anything to silence Joseph's voice from musing aloud over my friend Viv's shimmering cascade of golden locks or Heather's coltish legs, which went on forever (my choice of words expressing his spoken thoughts)—if only my 'friend' would gaze soulfully into my eyes while wrapping his hand around my raven pony tail so as to pull me in for my first kiss—oh my God—no prepubescent daydream I'd ever conjured up could top the pure bliss of a pipe dream as juicy as the one that just appeared on my screen! (In fact, not once—until my finger tips hovered over the keyboard just now—had it dawned on me that while prepubescent Annie was spinning romantic pipe dreams, Joseph was beginning to awaken from wet dreams.)

In truth, at the age of twelve, I'd not ever consciously entertained such a sensuous pipe dream with myself cast in the role of hot-to-trot heroine.  Why not?  Because any thought verging on the edginess of bodice-ripping sexiness would have felt far too dangerous to conjure up on my own based in the fact that my defense system had felt need to delete yet another deeply traumatized set of secrets from the conscious portion of my memory before Joseph's whistle had ever tapped into my wild side’s budding need to tiptoe as close as possible to his, circa 1956.

As not even one darkly shadowed hint of my having been coerced by a pedophile to participate in mind blowing moments (before my family had moved to the suburbs) will begin to seep out of subconscious storage until 1997 (when intuition compels me to fly to Colorado to seek guidance from a psychologist, whose piercing nature is well trained in a method of therapy designed to inspire the insight-driven portion of my mind to inject my conscious awareness with the courage to engage in painful discussions so as to awaken the anesthetized portion of my processor to identify terrors buried alive thus empowering the injured portion of my brain, suffering from amnesia, to heal itself from PTSD)  Whew!  I had to write this explanation, again and again, until clarity concerning that which I felt need to convey was mine.

By leaping back and forth across the time line, we begin to fathom the human brain's capacity for compartmentalization.  Compartmentalization empowers our defense systems to overwhelm memory during traumatic moments by injecting the conscious portion of our processors with an amnesiac sleeping potion (adrenalin) so potent as to drug a terrified child’s brain into locking the existence of heinous experiences, which prove too confounding to understand, within the dark side of the subconscious until the child's emotional intelligence matures to the point that the emergence of intuitive powers sense the on-going development of inner strengths shaping up into character traits necessary for an adult to set out on an insight-driven quest to reawaken the sleeping portion of the traumatized child still cowering anxiously within so as to inspire our smarts to take one cautious step after another ever more deeply into the repressed portion of our psyches, feeling ever more determined to surface with strings of inter-related insight spotlighting forgotten details based in facts (rather than opinions), which fuel our spirits to encourage our intelligence to continue to master anxiety by mustering the courage to embrace every baby step forward toward empowering the frontal lobe to soothe the arousal of latent anxiety based in yesteryear's fear of undeserved guilt, emotional abandonment or personal failure so as to bolster positive attitudes to take leaps of faith away from any narrow-minded thought that ties our spirits to stakes where unprocessed fears view the world as such a dangerous place as to direct our intelligence to play every next move as safe as we can rather than muscling up our mental potential to fuel our spirits to break free of fear's chokehold so as to instill the imaginative portion of our processors with a hopeful sense of resilience that feels so natural as to inspire our processors to think out of the box in terms of viewing every person's life as a project in different stages of development, knowing that every brain houses a thought processor that is capable of experimenting with flights of fancy into the unknown—some having worked to develop an ever deepening connection to common sense than proves true of those, whose unidentified subconscious fears stimulate the defensive portion of their processors to direct their trains of thought toward negatively focused attitudes, which, having gotten stuck in a dark place during childhood, prove as much in need of emotional maturation as had been true of me—Double Whew!  Clarifying the train of thought above has required a whale of patience, which proves worth the effort for this reason:  Each time I muster the patience to describe the intricacy of those insights with a greater sense of clarity for you suggests that my processor is continuing to work toward deepening its comprehensive understanding of the complex functionality of the human brain.  And as knowledge concerning the complex functionality of the human brain empowers my intelligence to maintain control over my defensive limbic system, I observe myself thinking clearly when everyone else is running around yelling—the sky is falling!

In short, during stormy times, I've come to call upon clarity to place everyone concerned in the same ark knowing that—some are more capable of rowing—some are more capable of quietly sighting the shoreline—some are so patient as to spear for fish, while others are doing their 'best' not to fall overboard or sink the ship, altogether.  The trouble comes when ship sinkers, elected to positions of leadership, have no clue that latent anxieties, flailing about, are engaging in mean-spirited power struggles, which left unidentified and thus unresolved, will drown everyone in unhappiness except for those whose sense of clarity remains positively focused upon keeping the ark as shipshape as possible while seeking a shoreline where every survivor feels warmly welcomed to rest, relax and self nourish so as to thrive.

As portions of today’s intuitive train of thought had only been partially processed until 2019, clarity may still lean toward fuzzy; however once my processor has had time to rest from churning out inter-related insights, I’ll review this train of thought, which flowed out of the depths of my mind in one fell swoop, because the teacher in me will feel compelled to improve whatever needs changing for the better when a relaxed sense of readiness is once again mine.  In the meantime, let’s free our minds to absorb whatever’s about to take place on stage as would happen in a real theater once a 15 minute intermission has passed.)

During sixth grade, I'd invited Scarlett and Rhett to snuggle under the covers where each stage of their torrid love affair informed my preteen psyche of the persistence of unrequited passions, and as Margaret Mitchell's command of the written word flooded each chapter of this page turner with vivid descriptions of emotionality bursting with life, my chest would contract with bated breath as though every detail of this Civil War tale challenged my chastity to maintain its subconscious cap on my libido, which, though deeply repressed, couldn't help but feel utterly rapt each time Scarlett and Rhett's impassioned reactions made my head swirl until finally, the sandman would appear, sprinkling my mind with dreams of love and romance, which were not theirs but mine.  And each time my eyelids grew heavy, my soul, tucked safely into my solitary twin bed, wove fantasies sweet as sugar plums in which Joseph and I danced the hours away until dawn ...

When absorbing pages of love scenes describing relationships that my heart longed to experience no longer satisfied my budding need to engage in a romance all my own, every fiber of my being absorbed Scarlett and Rhett’s impassioned, academy-award winning emotional interactions on the silver screen.  Not once.  Not twice—but at least a handful of times as I chose to purchase a ticket to ride in their roller coaster within this darkened theater or that one whenever their timeless love story rolled back into town.

By the time I was a high school graduate, my head had been buried between the pages of that novel (which never got old) so many times that the unlikely friendship, which drew Scarlett’s fiery nature and Melanie’s soulful gentleness toward blending their opposite natures into one being, had soaked so deeply into my processor as to have been repressed within my subconscious where both sides of my conflicted character traits remained embedded, each vying for dominance though my line of self control kept Scarlett's impassioned nature well hidden in the wings from the conscious portion of my mind, which, for the most part, acknowledged only Melanie's selfless, sweetly generous spirit emanating from within my depths to star on center stage for decades to come.  And just as love scenes on the silver screen faded to dark, during the late fifties and early sixties, anything that hinted at a boy getting further than first base with me saw the darkly traumatized portion of my processor raising red flags of spiking anxiety that spontaneously pushed them away.

On the other hand, during pre-teen years (and beyond) when Saturday matinees dimmed the lights, my psyche felt free to release deeply repressed, impassioned emotions to surge naturally throughout every nerve in my body.  I'd cringed to see Judd Fry grasp Laurie's innocence into his arms in the darkened smoke house on Aunt Eller's Oklahoma farm.  However, when Curly pulled Laurie in for her first kiss, my eyes closed while imagining myself swept up hotly into Joseph's embrace, claiming my first taste of his lips.  When it came time to leap out of the surrey with the fringe on top and ride the carousel, I cried my eyes out to see Billy Bigalow fall on that knife, leaving his newly impregnated bride, Julie, walking alone through a storm with her head held high suffering in silence as this devastated young widow, now a social outcast, births her dead sweetheart's daughter, no loving arm around her waist to quell the depths of her pain, which Julie's sweet nature represses upon being abandoned by friends and neighbors knowing that her precious child's spirit is in need of her mother's smile to shine forth each time her baby is rocked safely to sleep in an unfriended cottage.  OH! Cruel!  Cruel World!

While June was busting out all over, I was growing accustomed to the restraints of my first 'training' bra straps which the boys in my class were seen testily snapping, left and right.  We even had a math teacher, whose surges of unbridled testosterone spewed lewd comments while casting lecherous eyes pointedly at the chests of classmates who'd suffered the embarrassment of having been prematurely stacked until his creepy advances, reported to the principal, saw him sacked.

While the subconscious portion of my processor was busily absorbing all of that folderol—anything that hinted of sexual interest directed at me boomeranged off of my brain's defensive wall of denial, suggesting that not one conscious train of thought concerning my budding sensuality (much less sexuality) made its way through the mental fog surrounding the cocoon that protected the traumatized portion of my processor from anything resembling clarity.  I'm not kidding.

As a matter of fact, I've learned that the traumatized portion of a child's processor will remain stuck in the dark at whatever stage of life a pedophile's touch had stimulated the defensive system of the inexperienced brain to signal the frontal lobe to flick its switch from on to off, freeing the limbic system to usurp control and reign supreme until the terrifying presence (or specter) of Stranger Danger has past—and as not one conscious memory of those mind-blowing experiences had imprinted into the frontal lobe of my brain, everything that had boggled my mental connection to clarity transferred into subconscious memory, and that's no joke.

Upon reflecting over that last scientific fact, concerning scary secrets we keep from ourselves, we can see why, while watching my seventh grade friends swoon over The King of Rock and Roll’s swiveling hips, my defense system, standing at high alert, denies my brain any conscious clue as to what Elvis's body language is conveying to his audience.  As long as my defense system acts like a trampoline deflecting any thought of sex away from my processor's conscious sense of awareness, I am left to perceive of the emotional reactions of teen aged girls as being every bit as nuts as I think is true of The King's singing style, which looks so silly to me as to be comedic.  Then upon arriving home, still feeling confused about my friends' emotionality, I'd encountered my mother and grandma's interchange of frowning remarks concerning this rock star's outrageous gyrations.  However, their huffy rebuffs concerning his improper hip swiveling maneuvers left me as much in the dark as was true of the natural reactions of my friends.  Seriously, throughout puberty, I'd had no more clue as to why Elvis (or the Beatles) made my friends feel weak in the knees than I'd understood parental reactions, directing my friends to switch their TVs to another channel.

Emotional complexity, based in the processor's subconscious absorption of deeply buried trauma, is reason for contrasting character traits to develop.  And so we come to see why I'd longed to experience romance while defensively deleting the very existence of impassioned sexuality from my processor's conscious awareness.

If you still entertain the notion that ‘puppy love’ suggests preteens adoring each other dispassionately then hopefully, you won't take offense at my suggestion that the conscious portion of your processor may not have a clue as to when (or why) your defense system fools with your sense of clarity as is still true of mine, from time to time.  In short, denial comes and goes.  At times, our processors switch tracks from conscious clarity to subconscious anxiety spiking so quickly that we lose all track of what has just been said or what we were about to reply in response.

So anyway, one day at twilight, a pair of tightly knit friends are seen moseying down the alley, side by side, both seemingly relaxed while chatting, back and forth, about this and that when suddenly he stops walking, so she follows suit.  As Joseph turns toward me, I—feeling sparks of tension begin to crackle—stand statue-like while we, both holding leashes, stare into each other's blue eyes until much to my befuddled amazement, Joseph’s free hand rises as though in slo-mo until his open palm hovers momentarily so close to my head that you could have knocked me over with a feather when, while stroking my hair, which is seen flowing freely past my shoulders, I hear him say:  Gosh, it's even softer than I'd thought—and next thing I know he—

Come on!  You know I'm not going to spoil FIRST KISS Part 6 by completing that sentence, right now—I mean think about it—he and I were just kids—right?

So what might this boy's brain feel stimulated to do with a girl like me who (perceiving myself as much too unattractive to draw a popular guy's heart to melt into mine) has taken little note of this reality:  Over the past several months, my body has been in the process of shaping up—for the better ...