Lessons I learned from a housekeeper

I did some calculations the other day.

If I am lucky enough to live another 10 years, by the time I am 50, I will have mopped my kitchen floor and cleaned the three bathrooms in my house roughly 600 times. I will have planned or prepared about 20,000 meals for my family and done roughly 6,000 loads of laundry.  

What some people don’t realize about laundry is that you might say that you “did a load” and it sounds like no big deal, but it is a four-step process in which you wash it, dry it, fold it, and put it away. So my 6,000 loads will actually account for 24,000 acts of mindless drudgery.

I am not sure why it would appear that females are better-suited to mindless drudgery than males, but when I have questioned women over 50 about how one is supposed to clean up after an entire family without suffocating from resentment, many say this:

Just hire a housekeeper.

I do understand why people don’t hire male housekeepers. It’s the same reason there aren’t a lot of male nannies – at least not where I am from. I’ve read the stories in magazines like Vogue about “mannies,” but they were obviously exceptions rather than the norm. We’re more likely to trust a woman we don’t know than a man, at least when it comes to housework.

Many years ago, when I lived here with my grandmother, she was a regular client for a married couple who worked as housekeepers for a few different people. For several years, this couple did everything for my grandmother, from cleaning the bathrooms and taking out the trash to laundry and grocery shopping. By the time my grandmother was in her 80s, the woman in the couple was sorting her medications and helping her bathe.

This couple was very methodical about housework, starting the laundry first thing before gathering the trash. But of course, none of that is very interesting. It is mindless drudgery. This couple would sing while they worked, and the man had a habit of making noises as he moved through the house. Sometimes it sounded like he was saying, “Hee haw!” My mother surmised that it might have been his way of letting us know he was coming so that I didn’t end up walking down the hall in nothing but a towel as he was making his rounds to the wastebaskets.

I didn’t consciously take note of many of their cleaning methods, although clearly I should have. I wish someone had told me how exactly how you are supposed to clean the tracks of a sliding glass shower door, where water pools with hair and mildew, creating a viscous and indescribably disgusting substance.

One thing I do remember about my grandmother’s housekeepers was that they made a lot of stacks. They (and when I say they, I am pretty sure it was the woman who did this) would take books, bills, pens, and newspapers scattered on a table and make neat little stacks and piles with all of it.

When my grandmother’s housekeepers left and I began to assume their duties, I got interested in the Chinese design philosophy of feng shui, which uses natural elements to help people create pleasant environments.

I think I liked the symbolism of feng shui most of all. I liked how, to increase prosperity, you could place an amethyst in the area of your home related to money. If you want helpful people in your life, and you want to travel frequently (don’t ask me why those two things are related), then you might not want the section of your home that is related to helpful people and travel cluttered with wires, DVDs, and dust, as it is in mine.

It is, to some extent, magical thinking, and you need that once you’ve outgrown the idea that the mice should be talking to you and helping you tidy up.

What I’ve learned from reading about Asian interior design philosophy boils down to this: Clutter is bad.

It’s not that I disagree …

If I were to write a book about cleaning and organizing, it would be titled All It Takes Is A Trash Bag.

It would be one of those “cut your losses” books about letting go of the past and giving up your emotional attachment to the piece of skin that your pet lizard shed so many years ago. I would say it’s OK to let go of that massive molar you keep in your jewelry box. You keep it because first you paid a dentist $1,300 to root canal and crown it, and then you paid another dentist to pull it out because the most expensive crown you ever wore felt perpetually wrong.
I do know that, in reality, cleaning up is more complicated than just taking out the trash. Sometimes it takes a dumpster, a landfill, and a week of assistance from several determined and able-bodied people.

So, when I write my book, first I’ll say that you should be absolutely ruthless in your war against clutter.

Then I’ll say that if that isn’t possible, you should put precious gems, crystals, and other symbols of goodness, which may or may not have power beyond their aesthetic value, in various areas for inspiration and hope.

If that doesn’t work, you could try developing a mantra or maybe just a weird noise that you make periodically as you clean to let people know you’re coming. It should be the sound that your spirit animal would make. That might even cause everyone else to get up and help while braying with their own determination.

And actually, don’t worry about throwing away every little useless thing. You can keep your molars and your crowns in a jewelry box. They did cost a lot of money, and they’re not taking up much space.


The beautiful people

Some of my ex-pat friends are talking like they feel lucky to be out of the U.S. right now, and I understand, but thought I should say that there are still some beautiful, happy people who appear to be enjoying life in this country despite the violence, waste, and ridiculous cost of everything.

I saw some of them Saturday night.

It’s easy to see beautiful people and imagine that they are happy when you don’t know them. And so if you, like me, decide you need to write about something good, partly for your own benefit and partly for others, you could always write about something that looks vital and healthy on the surface, because appearances usually are an indicator of overall well-being.

Sometimes being near some uncontaminated thing gives you a sense of peace in knowing that the universe continues to unfold and renew itself even as you sit and do nothing. You could do nothing for probably hours or even days and it would be OK.

Other times, watching an expression of energy and joy makes you feel empty in contrast. You long for something that you might have had once, but you didn’t know it, or if you did you didn’t know how to make it last. It’s more than something you can capture in a photograph.

Saturday evening we were to chaperone a dance, and since it was Restaurant Week in our town and we were going to be dressed up anyway, I made reservations. I put in my contact lenses and used my curling iron.

Our table was right in the middle of the restaurant, which I don’t like. At each of the tables surrounding us were young people smiling and talking as they enjoyed fine food and wine. Some of them were wearing fake eyelashes. I ordered a chestnut butternut squash soup as an appetizer.

A young man seated beside me kept quietly breaking out into song. He seemed to be trying to cajole his date into joining him. I wanted to turn my head to get a look at her, but thought it might be too conspicuous. The singer was probably 28 or 30, had dark hair, and was wearing Levis with a light gray wool sweater. My husband conjectured that he must have been a music theater major. He noted that everyone younger than us in the restaurant, and many of the older folks, were dressed casually, without jackets or ties.

“I guess Millennials wear jeans to everything,” I said.

But aside from our age, we had another excuse for dressing up, which was the dance.

I ordered fish for dinner. I honestly have no idea what my husband ordered. His plate was behind the bread basket.

At the table behind him, in the corner, where I wish we had been seated, was the most beautiful woman I have seen in a long time. She had long, dark, curly hair and wore bright crimson lipstick. She was probably 25 or 28. I think she was having dinner with her fiance’s parents or something like that. The fiance was blond with a little facial hair and a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his button-down shirt. He looked like an actor on a commercial for expensive beer.

I had coffee custard for dessert. My husband had banana gelato.

At the dance, we sat behind a table of snacks and smiled and I talked about the dances that I went to when I was in high school. They were all kind of anticlimactic. You’d get all dressed up and go with this one boy who would either ignore you or expect you to set the agenda and provide all the entertainment for the evening. It was not like in the movies. I think some of these kids who go to the dances with friends instead of dates have the right idea.

Last night, most of the girls’ dresses were similar to the one I was wearing – dark with lace sleeves. A few wore pink dresses, which I liked because they stood out among the darkness. I guess it’s a good thing I wore a pink dress to my wedding. I don’t know if you can wear a pink dress when you chaperone a dance. You probably can, but I probably won’t.

A lot of the boys wore bow ties.

“The bow ties are definitely a Winchester thing,” my husband observed distantly.

He was tired and wanted to go home. I’d signed up to chaperone for the first hour and it was up.

We gathered our coats from my classroom upstairs and looked down at the dance floor below. Some of them were dancing. I know in my heart that some of them were having fun, even if they didn’t know it. I watched one of my former students standing alone in the center of the pulsing crowd. He pulled out his cellphone and touched a button, lighting up the screen, then he put the phone back in his pocket. Last semester, a pretty girl had a crush on him. He never knew.

“You didn’t stay long!” one of my bosses called as we waved goodbye.

At home, I took out my contacts, and my husband settled into his recliner to watch the end of some movie he had started.


Why some people wear hats indoors

Recently I was involved in a brief dispute between a juvenile and another adult.

I am going to write about it.

The adult came up to me and told me that I needed to make sure that the juvenile pulled his hood down off of his head. If he did not, I was to report back to the other grownup and the kid would be in big trouble, the other grownup said.

I went up to the juvenile in question and asked him to lower his hood. He complied and it was business as usual.

If I were in the mood to write a fiction story, I would name that kid Puck or Finn (short for Finnigan) and he would not have done as I asked, but instead he would have pushed me aside, yelled “Get out of my face!” and proceeded to run out of the building, leading several adults and, ultimately, the police on a high-speed chase. The story would end in tragedy, and the theme might be something along the lines of: When a grown-up tells you to do something, it’s a lot easier to just do it.

Probably, though, I’d want a more sweeping and meaningful message to my story. Finn or Puck might be sort of a tragic hero. You know the type: smart, rugged good looks, dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father. The theme of this story would be more along the lines of: Society has a lot of rules, and sometimes it isn’t worth losing your mind or risking your life to break them.

Or to enforce them.

But I am not in the mood to write fiction. Instead, I would like to write a listicle speculating on the reasons why people might wear hats and hoods indoors even though it is generally considered a breach of etiquette. According to The Emily Post Institute, men have traditionally removed their hats and hoods indoors as a gesture of respect. Women, on the other hand, have been exempt from hat rules and may wear their hats indoors. Cancer patients are always exempt from hat rules.

I can tell you that girls are not exempt from certain school dress code rules regarding hats and headgear. I have seen people cry over such rules, but so far I have not been one of them.

At any rate, here are some reasons why I think people might want to wear their hats and hoods inside:

They are having a bad hair day. I really think this is the No. 1 reason people want to keep their hoods on. For me, pretty much every day is a bad hair day, but I usually solve the problem as best I can with a ponytail. On the rare occasion that I wear a hat to keep warm, my hair never really recovers. Maybe we should amend the no-hat rules on days when the temperature is below freezing? You have to understand that the most important thing to many of us is being cool. We don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. How are we supposed to feel cool when our hair looks terrible? You say we should have gotten up earlier to fix our hair, but the truth is, we did get up early and we had to work pretty hard to look this bad. We do not want to be ridiculed and so we wish to cover ourselves. It is a sad thing to feel this way, but many of us do.

They just forgot. Have you ever had a lot on your mind? Personally, I am always thinking about what I should do next. As a result, sometimes I forget about what I should be doing RIGHT NOW. Because I don’t wear hats or hoods often, I rarely forget to remove mine indoors. And I have a feeling no one would feel threatened if I forgot to remove my favorite black fur-lined hat inside a building. Very few people feel truly fearful when they see me coming, even when I wear my hat. But anyway, when I am lost in thought, I sometimes forget to put my keys in the right pocket or turn the ringer on my phone on. Sometimes I forget where I parked or I forget someone’s name. I would imagine something similar happens to a lot of people who wear hats when they walk inside a building.

They want to be cool. By wearing a hat indoors, some people, especially juveniles, might feel they are subtly showing their disregard for authority. They are above authority. They do what they want! Anyone who challenges them will rue the day. And besides, they do not care about the impression they are making on others. That is why they want an additional barrier in the form of a hood between them and their fellow man. They don’t need anyone’s approval or some deep social connection. Come to think of it, compromised peripheral vision is a good thing. Less stimulation equals better focus. I can actually imagine a juvenile explaining this to me. It’s along the same lines as the argument that having earbuds in with country music or gangsta rap blasting into the old eardrums helps a person focus.

Their parents wear hats indoors. And said parents have possibly told them that anyone who questions their practice of wearing a hat indoors is probably a supreme dork who has to kiss up to the man just to keep earning his meager paycheck. Not only could such a cog be easily destroyed by a brief physical confrontation, but a phone call to the cog’s boss might just get the cog fired.

They are thinking of robbing a bank. Or writing a story about robbing a bank. Or maybe they have just seen a lot of movies about bank robbers and some of those bank robbers were tragic heroes, played by really good-looking guys, who broke some rules sometimes. Personally, I think you’d probably need a bit more than a hat or hood to really pull off an epic heist. But as I have said, I don’t know much about all of this. I am just a little old lady, and I rarely wear hats or hoods.

When the lights go out

The problem with New Year’s Eve and day is that there’s too much pressure to do something both meaningful and hedonistic. It’s an oxymoronic holiday the way we celebrate it in the U.S. Why would you want to set the tone for a fresh start with a hangover, either literal or figurative, from too much of everything? Too much rich food, too many trinkets that you gave and received and there’s nowhere to put everything. And would someone please take this treadmill I have no intention of using ever again?

Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe Jan. 1 should be a celebration of closeness, rest, and relaxation, since winter forces us to slow down. You can’t get any traction when there’s ice on ground. Winter is here, but what does that mean now that every room is filled with screens generating artificial light?

Maybe it means we should light a candle and read a paper book like Abraham Lincoln did, just as a symbolic gesture. I say that, but am I just hypocritically dwelling on the past like aging people always do? Should I just shut up and download an app that counts my footsteps so I can lose these holiday pounds instead of pointing out to everyone who suggests it that people lost weight BEFORE they had apps?

The thing about Americans is that we are not very good at slowing down because, frankly, it’s not good for the economy. You keep cranking it out and I’ll keep consuming it, then we can both be proud of our contributions and no one can call us lazy.

I’m not trying to be preachy. I’m trying to figure out a way to enjoy the end of this holiday break. Everyone I know is saying it’s been a hard year for them, personally and politically. A lot of people are asking themselves: Why is my family so pathetic/dysfunctional? Why am I not where I had hoped to be at this point in life?

The challenge of New Year’s is finding something to look forward to when it is cold outside, we’ve got months of winter ahead, and we know this year will be full of personal and political challenges just like the last one. We are inclined to hibernate, but there’s work to be done.

Probably no one over 30 really looks forward to getting another year older. I, for one, was hoping this year would go by really slowly, because it’s my last year in my 30s. I’ll turn 40 in May, and I don’t care what anyone says, 40 isn’t young.

But dreading my next birthday isn’t slowing down time. The fall semester flew by and spring will do the same. At the school where I work, we start new classes each semester, so I only have the same students for about five months at a time, like at a college. There are good and bad things about that schedule. I suppose in many ways it’s good that we have a lot to do in a short amount of time. Theoretically, there’s little opportunity for boredom.


Even though most adults don’t look forward to getting older or the challenges it brings, there are people on the planet who do look forward to their next birthday because of all the opportunities that will come with it. Those people are called children. In this country, a child is anyone under the age of 30 with no children of their own.

I can’t remember how I felt the first time I saw snow, but I do remember what it was like when I got my driver’s license, and when I got an acceptance letter from the first college I applied to.

Now I have people asking me for letters of recommendation and help getting internships and even though I have to caution them not to make the same mistakes I did, I also owe it to them not to be too cynical to imagine that there is a big world out there that needs and wants them, and a small one at home that will welcome them back if the big one turns out to be too much or too little.

The small world at home is where it begins, where you can keep it simple with real candles, handwritten letters and paper books, favorite stories, and songs passed from one generation to the next. Simple rituals to hold onto when the lights go out are not just symbolic gestures, but part of surviving the dark winters in every life.

The names that got away

It dawned on me recently that soon I will be an old woman named Star Friend.

An old woman, with a tattoo, named Star Friend.

Of course, there will be plenty of other old ladies with tattoos, but they’ll have names like Melissa and Jennifer. What kind of name is Star Friend for an old lady?

For years I wished my name were Shirley, maybe because of the writer Shirley Jackson. I figured someone named Shirley would be interesting, but not odd, and definitely wouldn’t have to go around apologizing for her weird name. If my name were Shirley, I would have red hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and a better sense of humor.

When I was about 17, I once delivered a pizza to two people in a Victorian house. The man was in his 20s and had a thick ponytail. The woman was in her 50s.

I didn’t get a good look inside the house as I collected the money for their pizza, but I imagined it was furnished with a lot of funky original modern artwork, Oriental rugs, and grandfather clocks. They listened to jazz music. The woman was not his mother. Nor was she his lover, because the age difference between them was too great and that would have been gross. No, that guy in his 20s was hanging out with that woman in her 50s because they were both artists of some kind or another. He liked her because she knew more about their particular art than he did. I figured her name was probably Shirley.

Today I decided that it would be great if my name were Nora.

I came to this conclusion while emailing a woman named Nora. If I were a Nora, I would be taken seriously at all times. I imagine that Noras can quiet a room of noisy kids just by raising an eyebrow. They are feminine, but also intellectual. They have dark brown hair. Noras can be hot at 45 or 50, not Baywatch bimbo hot, but the understated, mysterious kind.

What can we do with these names we wanted, but will never have? What about the other names that got away – the ones we wanted for our sons and daughters, if only our husbands, friends, and family members hadn’t vetoed them?

I have a whole list of those names, mostly for girls.

When I was 21 I told my then-boyfriend that I wanted to have three daughters named Bianca, Rosaline, and Sophia. He said that under no circumstances would he approve of any of those names.

That was OK because we never got married.

My husband didn’t like the name Bianca, either, and neither did any of my friends. One friend said “Bianca” sounded like a promiscuous snob.

Regardless, our first child was a boy. Everyone approved of the name Oliver for him. We got a bit of grief from our parents over our proposal to make his middle name Trout, so we decided not to use it. In hindsight, I’m glad we caved, but I was furious at the time that my mother had given me all the weirdest names she could gather up, but was opposed to me naming her grandson after a fish. Nonetheless, Oliver grew into a boy who feeds more fish every day than the owner of a small pet store.

The scary thing about names is that they really are so full of meaning and predestination. It’s one reason people play it safe with classic names. Your kid probably won’t hate you for naming him John or Elizabeth.

These days, I’m surrounded in the high school where I work by Kaylees, Madisons, Mikaylas, Mackenzies, Logans (for boys and girls), Bradens, Jaydens, Caydens, Sydneys, Alexises, and so on. I have yet to encounter a teen in this generation named Stacey or Donna.

It’s hard to escape the generational appeal of names. Just when you think you have chosen one that is unique but appealing, you hear of someone else who is thinking of giving their child the same name. This is going to happen, so don’t bother getting defensive.

The last name that got away from me was India Eleanor. I loved it for a daughter, but my husband thought it was too melodramatic, too faux exotic when we’re not exotic. We’re not even Eastern European.

All you can do with these names that you wanted for yourself and your children is give them to pets and fictional characters. Some would say writing fiction is a waste of time when you’ll never be the next Shirley Jackson, but if that’s the case, then there’s a lot less risk in naming a fictional character than having another baby.

B average

This might be a story about mediocrity. Or maybe it’s about working hard to compensate for not being a genius. Then again, maybe it’s just about being middle-aged and feeling alienated by the expectations of a new world order.

This is just to say that I think a B is a good grade.

My 9th-grade English teacher was a short, plump woman with cropped black hair who wore orthopedic shoes. I couldn’t tell you how old she was because as far as I was concerned at the time, age became irrelevant after 30.

As soon as we met her, she told us we should consider dropping her class if we weren’t up for a challenge. There were easier English classes at the school, she said. My dark secret was that I wanted to be a writer, a real one, someday, so I told myself that I could handle anything an English class would throw my way.

Well, I did handle it, and I’m not too ashamed about the fact that I got Bs on some of those essays.

One time that teacher let us pick our seats based on our grades. The kids with the best grades got to choose first. I can’t remember if I had an A or B at the time, but I was the third person to choose a seat. The first was an uppity girl named Anne who I remember stated that she didn’t believe in grading on a curve.

“You should get the grade that you earn!” Anne told us.

I also got a B in my high school Creative Writing class.

On my report card, the teacher wrote: “Star, I would like to give you an A, but I don’t think I can. Good luck in journalism next year.”

I tried to figure out why that teacher wanted to give me an A, but could not. Maybe it was because I had carried on an on-again, off-again “relationship” (high schoolers love that word) with a boy in the class and we spent a fair amount of time tormenting each other in-person and through mutual friends. When we were “just friends,” I can recall him regaling us with stories of his sexual escapades with other girlfriends. On the days he was absent, his friends speculated that some of his stories were actually fictional.

Years after I graduated from high school, I was working at a local newspaper and the editors wanted us to write stories about people who had inspired us. One of the people I wrote about was that strict 9th-grade English teacher who had given me some Bs. I didn’t mention the Bs of course, because at the time, I thought Bs were normal and acceptable grades for all humans. This was before I became a teacher.

Not long after I wrote the story about being inspired by my former teacher, I did another story in which I referred to “gorilla warfare” – a mistake that slipped past my editors. Not knowing that the reporter who wrote it was a) one of his wife’s former students and b) one who had written a rather flattering article about her for the same paper, my former teacher’s husband called the newspaper’s editor and told him what a bunch of idiots we all were and that his wife would be appalled if she saw such a mistake in the newspaper. The editor didn’t know enough of the backstory to tell the guy that his wife had seen some of my mistakes before and it actually didn’t upset her too much.

What I know for sure is that you can be a person who sometimes earns Bs on writing assignments and still grow up to pay your bills by writing. I don’t recommend it, but it can be done. Also, you can be a person who earns Bs on writing assignments even if your teacher does not hate you. Even if you are one of her favorites and she is one of yours.

I know that much is true.

Dramatic irony

Nothing makes you appreciate the hard work of professional actors and directors like getting through the drama unit in your high school English class, or running through a play written and performed by students, for that matter. All along, we thought those famous people got their roles mainly because they were good-looking and charismatic, not because they were particularly intelligent or hard-working. Then, somewhere around the time you finish Act III of Romeo & Juliet, after you’ve delegated and negotiated endlessly over roles and props, you’re looking at quiz scores and you realize what the drama unit does to people. It takes a toll on us all, and we’re not even putting on a real production.

You’ve heard of actors getting too caught up in their roles, to the point of losing it. You’ve heard of the curse of MacBeth, which is probably a related phenomenon. What’s amazing is how quickly this type of thing takes hold.

I have seen it both ways. I’ve had classes in which NO ONE wants to volunteer for a part in the play and just reading the lines out loud together is torture for everyone. “Can’t we just watch the movie?” they beg. But I have also had classes where there are five girls whose dream is to play Juliet. And don’t think for a second that it doesn’t matter who plays Romeo. It matters immensely.

So what do you do?

Switch roles every two acts, so everyone who wants a chance gets one.

Last week, right before we started reading Romeo & Juliet, I was standing in the kitchen at 5:30 a.m. drinking coffee with my husband. He has been a high school English teacher longer than me, so he’s been through R&J a few more times and has a lot of the lines memorized. Friar Laurence’s famous line, “Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast” is posted in his classroom.

Thinking about what it takes to get through a drama unit, even when it isn’t Shakespeare, I said to my husband:

“I know what I have to do, but can I do it?”

That very quote “wisely, and slow” was on an open-book quiz I gave today. You would think open-book would make things easier, but it doesn’t necessarily. Students with high As in the class came to me and said breathlessly, “I’ve been through Acts II and III and can’t find these quotes anywhere.”

That quote is, in fact, in Act II, Scene III, but this is what I mean about the toll – the price of a drama unit, especially a Shakespearean tragedy. Less serious students would have considered these quotes and their value on the quiz fairly inconsequential.

What I’m saying is that there is a little too much drama that comes with the drama unit.

Maybe if my background were in theater instead of nonfiction writing I would find the plays less taxing. Another teacher who works with me is also a director at a local theater. She seems to keep a sense of humor about it all because, of course, they’re kids, and not professionals.

I know, but.

It’s the same in my creative writing class. Writing plays and acting them out seems infinitely more challenging than, say, poetry or, my favorite, literary nonfiction, because there are no rules in poetry and you can be so figurative that it really doesn’t even have to make total sense. With literary nonfiction, people write their memoirs. I love it if they share with the class, but they don’t have to, so the writing itself is the culminating activity. That’s swell for the introverts, and I get it.

Yesterday, we were acting out a play that a kid wrote which was set in a haunted insane asylum. The stand where I kept my bathroom passes got knocked over and broken. I said, “Guys, we are pretending to be in an insane asylum, but this can not become real,” and they knew exactly what I meant. It’s amazing how thin the line can be between losing yourself in a role and just losing yourself.

My 8-year-old daughter loves scary stories, except when she wakes up in the middle of the night after a bad dream. When she woke up at 3 a.m. this morning, I asked her what her bad dream was about. She said, “Sometimes after a bad dream, I just feel scared, but not scared of the thing in the dream.”

OK, well, I have had dreams where something that happened was terrifying, but if I tried to explain it to someone, they wouldn’t understand why. Still, when you’re reading creepy stories and acting them out, you are setting the mood of your mind, which maybe you can turn on and off like a switch, but maybe not.

That tenuous division between fantasy and reality is one that you have to push for creativity, but you can’t go too far or the next thing you know you’re swilling absinthe and talking to a bird.

At the end of Act III, Juliet says, “If all else fail, myself have the power to die.”

When you say those lines, either something happens or it doesn’t. You either feel it or you don’t.

And ultimately, you want to feel it, which is why it sucks the breath right out of you.