oo1. What started the fire.

This part was fun to write; and it was pointed out to me that this could possibly be taken as like, crazy symbolic. Let me clear it up. It isn't.

I'm not really sure when we started writing our life stories on ourselves, or why we even thought it was a good idea. There wasn't any shortage of paper or mass failure of computers, it wasn't an Irish potato famine kind of thing, where this was just our last resort. I guess someone, at some point, got sick of describing himself, or sick of describing his day, so he chose pen over sword. Or maybe he was physically incapable of speaking. Maybe he took a vow of silence.

Regardless of why it happeend, it did, and it spread like a f*****g disease. First it became a hit for those who kept much too busy, writing reminders and notes on their arms. Then the overly-emotional were known to vent by writing poetry on their chests and shoulders-- it came from the heart. Then it became totally fashion forward to keep your daily blog, not on the internet for the world to see, but on your face for the world to see.

Now it's everyone. Turn on a TV. A politician will have I'M SICK OF MY LIES around his neck like a rope; a game show host-- STUDIO, DRY CLEANING, PICK UP KIDS AT FOUR on his wrist;  a chef- I'M ALWAYS NERVOUS ABOUT F*****G UP AGAIN, plainly on her plunging, too-revealing neckline.

Some people choose to keep the same thing written all the time-- mostly elders. One of my school teachers has had I KNOW I CAN BUY US THAT HOUSE, SOMEDAY written neatly across his cheeks and nose for as long as I can remember. It's rumored that the old widow who lives on the ground floor of my apartment building writes the name of her late husband over and over on the veiny, sagging insides of her legs. Some people choose to write their dreams and goals. Those are mostly children.

I've always liked to keep it simple. I don't scrub off and rewrite everyday, but I do when I need to. I update myself as things change, and leave myself alone when they don't. I've also, over time, developed a sort of system to keep myself organized:

face, neck: daily/ almost daily blog. (I am, in fact, totally fashion forward.)

arms: questions, things to wonder about later

hands: reminders

stomach: new ideas, secrets, romance

legs: dreams, old ideas to be revisited

I've never liked my legs, so no one has read those. Also my stomach. I figured it was a fairly safe place.

I remember the first time I thought I was in love. I met him at school when he approached me about what was written on my cheek. "Dana thought it was hilarious when I told her I've never been kissed." When he took me to the mall that night, he kissed the words until he couldn't read them anymore, until they stained his lips blue instead. Eventually I noticed that there was a list of dates and girl's names on his collar. The second time, I met him at the mall. When he took me to his house, his sweat wiped the world 'virgin' off my stomach, until I saw "... just need someone to fill my need" on the underside of his chin. I found a pen on his desk before I left . WHY ARE PEOPLE SUCH A******S stayed on my arm, elbow to wrist, for over a week.

Author's Note

grammar mistakes are friends!