Chapter Summary: Ever have to go, but then you couldn't, and people were waiting, in line, and you tried to go, and you couldn't ... MORE? Yeah. Now try that with Rosalie staring at you, tapping her foot. I'm Bella Swan, and I have performance anxiety. NOT LIKE THAT! God, I can't believe I said that! MY CHEEKS HURT!

I was still on the potty when Rosalie stumbled in.

She looked like she came out on the wrong end of a rave. Her hair was sweaty and matted, her eyes squinted against the bathroom light, and she had a line down the side of her face, slicing right through her left eye. I think she fell asleep against a crease in her sheets.

It's not often anybody sees Rosalie Hale as human with bed-head hair. I think she observed my wide-eyed expression, because she stuck her tongue out at me.

"Bleh!" she growled angrily.

I tried, very hard, not to laugh out loud.

Well, good morning to you, too, Rosalie Hale, I thought to Miss Ray-of-Sunshine. Although it was getting onto the evening.

I wondered if she were going for the record? The 'let's see how many times we can fuck Bella Swan six ways from Sunday' record before she brought me home tonight?

Did the Guinness books have a world record for that? I think Rosalie's getting close.

She washed her face at her sink, and immediately livened up, and assumed a more god-like role and look.

"Some hold-up?" she asked, looking at me in her wall mirror which I think is actually bigger than my bed back in the trailer.

Rosalie Hale likes mirrors. Lots of mirrors.

Not that she's vain, or anything, but ...

"I just ..." I said, and looked away.

"Going 'number two'?" she asked and smirked.

She loved that term.

Earlier in our 'relationship,' ... can you call it that? ... she had threatened to bust down the bathroom door and drag me out by the hair, claiming that I was stalling what was coming to me.

That's when I screamed in frustration that I wasn't stalling, I was going number two, for Christ's sake!

I mean, really! Can't a girl poop in peace between spankings and fuckings? But no!

I think she may have actually almost had a seizure, right then and there, right outside the bathroom door, she was laughing so hard ... at me!

Hmmphf!

Well, ever since then, Rosalie's been so solicitous making sure that was I going 'number two'? And did I need more t.p. because I had to wipe after going 'number two'? And, oh, did I need to go 'number two' between God-damn rounds of torture sessions, also known as 'a light, fun match or two of table tennis'?

Swear to God, that woman is relentless once she hooks onto something.

I'm actually shocked she hasn't started showing up mid-class and asked the teacher in front of everybody to make sure Bella Swan, that shy brown-haired girl hiding behind her upside-down math book, yeah, that girl? Please make sure she had gone 'number two' this period. She forgets sometimes.

And, no, do not give her that suggestion, thanks.

Well, this time, I'll have you know, I was not going number two!

JEEZ!

"No," I answered petulantly, this time embarrassed at her regard.

You see, it's okay for me to see Rosalie all disheveled after an exhausting session, but it is so not okay for her to be smirking at me when I'm in the potty.

You see, that's, like, a rule that everybody knows, including her. She can be caught an be all 'bleh' but she can't catch me and make me embarrassed.

See?

"Then what is it?" she demanded, amused now.

"It's just that ..." I looked away, "it won't come out when people are like ... when you're like waiting for me to ..."

"Does someone have performance anxiety?"

I dared a peek. I shouldn't have from that tone of hers. She was smiling and her eyes were dancing with delight.

"No," I said quickly looking away, "it's just that ..."

I bit my lip.

Rosalie snorted lightly, tolerantly.

I hate that when she gets all like, 'oh, you poor baby, do you want mommy to hold your hand?' like.

I sighed, and dragged myself up.

"You go, I guess," I said sadly. "I'll ..."

"Oh, nononono!" Rosalie said quickly, scolding me as she pushed me back down. "You stay right here and take care of your business. I'll use the ... 'potty' downstairs." She snickered, using the term. "You can have some time alone to relax. I'm sure that'll help."

"O-okay," I said weakly.

Rosalie turned and headed toward the door, but stopped, her hand on the door handle.

"Unless," she offered, "you want me to help..."

I didn't get it. "How can you ..."

I stopped so fast my stomach may have spun inside from me physically pulling myself back from my almost-asked question.

You see, Rosalie had 'that look' in her posture. It was cunning. It was careful. It was pure evil.

"Um," I said, correcting course. "Um, no, Rosalie," I said breathlessly, trying to be cool and utterly failing. "You go ahead, I'll ... I'll ... I can take care of myself here."

She turned, looking at me coolly. "You sure? Because I'll be happy to lend a hand."

Yeah, right. 'A hand.' Sometimes she used her hand, sometimes she used the paddle or the strap, but I knew one sure way she got me to pee, and she said she wouldn't, but maybe there was an exception if I were tricked into asking for 'a hand' from her.

"No," I said in a near panic. "I'm okay, Rosalie, really!"

She regarded me levelly. "Okay," she said then shrugged with a careless: "Whatever."

Here's something you should know about Rosalie: when everybody says 'whatever,' it means, like, 'whatever,' you know? Like, 'okay, I don't like this, but I'll live with it.' But when Rosalie says 'whatever,' it means that her evil plans are foiled, and she'll just have to wait 'til next time to have her evil way with me. Which she will. In spades.

You'd think I'd learn that and take the drubbing now, whatever the thing that Rosalie wanted to do to me now, instead of making it worse by delaying so she could concoct something worse.

I did mention I'm a slow learner, didn't I?

And, stupid as it is, sometimes I got this crazy hope that she'd forget about what she wanted to do to me and I could just have a nice, quiet, normal day with her, you know?

Yeah, I know, I know: I'm dumb.

Rosalie looked around, foiled, and I should have been rejoicing that I had stopped her from executing her evil plan, but actually I wasn't.

It looked like she was sad. It looked like she wanted to have some fun, and now she couldn't.

I know: the 'fun' would have been for her, and at my expense, but ...

But I felt sad that she was sad.

"Well," she said finally, "gotta go."

She loped out of the room.

She loped right back.

"Pee," she commanded. "Clean your naughty butt of me, and then lie on the bed, supine and relaxed, and wait for my return. Got it?"

She emphasized the word 'supine,' and gave me a hard look, leaving the consequences unvoiced.

"I've got it, Rosalie," I said and added, "I remember."

Her lip twitched upward. She was pleased that I said I could do this one little thing. "Good girl," she said, and she was gone, loping downstairs, each step a graceful, soundless footfall.

You notice that? I scurry along; Rosalie lopes.

Even when she's rushing off to the bathroom, she's in command of herself, she's graceful and elegant.

There's a lesson in all that for me, I'm sure.

...

"Bella, why aren't you on the bed?" she said, back way too soon for petrified me.

"Um ..." I said, scared.

There was no answer to that question. It's the same question as "Bella, why did you disobey me?"

Because that's what she was implying I was doing.

"Bella?" she said coolly, again.

"Couldn't go," I whispered to the floor.

"Bella ..."

Her voice had become predatory. I looked at her, even knowing that this was a mistake.

You don't look at the huntress. You just high-tail it out of there.

But there was no high-tailing for me; I was cornered in the potty of all places.

She stalked toward me, and there was an evil grin on her face.

Her look was hungry.

I backed up against the toilet tank, as if scooching away just a little, tiny bit gave me more of a chance to escape her.

But there was no escaping Rosalie Hale.

She mounted me, sitting right down on my lap, and tilted my head up to look up at her.

She was smiling. "Time to help you, baby," she purred happily.

"Uh ..." I said, wondering how I could opt out of her 'help.'

With my chin firmly in her hand, she opened her mouth slightly, breathing me in through her mouth, and then she ...

... purred.

Her tongue vibrated in her mouth, and she made a sound half-way between a low growl and a cat's purr. Have you ever really listened to the sound of a cat purring? It's like a motor idling, right? It's a low, steady vibration.

That sound was coming out of Rosalie's entire body, and then transferring from her into me from her lap to my hips and tummy.

She looked like she was about ready to pounce, and I tried to back away more.

"Rosalie, what're you ..." I began scared.

"ROWR!" she snarled and snapped in at me, striking with her mouth at my neck.

I screamed in terror. But I knew it! Rosalie Hale is a vampire!

And in my terror, I let go and ... I peed, pinned to the toilet seat by her weight.

Her lips touched the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and she kissed me there, giggling.

I almost fainted from relief as I peed.

That woman is going to give me a heart attack, I swear!

Then I squealed: Rosalie took a little nip on my neck, just to assert her ownership.

She leaned back, smirking, looking into my eyes as I peed.

"Good girl," she purred, and kissed me softly on my forehead.

She dismounted (dismounted me, that is), then sauntered out of the bathroom. "Come to bed after you've washed yourself, ..."

Then she gave me a sultry backward glance. "I'll be waiting."

Then she gave a soft little cackle that probably the only other people in the world ever heard were Hansel and Gretel before the wicked witch started stoking the fire in the stove to prepare her supper ... of them.

...

I sighed.

I really have to learn when to trust Rosalie more, you know?

I was lying, supine (yeah, I'm not that dumb, okay? I can get one thing right ... with Rosalie's prompting, that is), on her bed, with Rosalie mounted on my chest.

She was massaging my face.

Okay. I never knew my face could feel tension, until Rosalie massaged it away.

Her fingers and thumbs were firm, penetrating, insistent, and so, so gentle and patient.

And she even massaged my scalp. I mean, like, really? my scalp?

Yep, she massaged that, too.

And it felt so, so good!

I sighed happily.

"Shouldn't I be doing this for you?" I whispered contentedly.

"Shh," she scolded lightly.

"It is your birthday, Rosalie," I added quietly.

"Bella," she said, as she continued her massage, "be a good little girl and take it."

She was quiet while she massaged. "Besides," she said, "I want to do this. I really like seeing you like this, sweetie."

Then she moved down, massaging, gently, my neck, my shoulders, up and down my arms, my hands, my fingers?! my chest, lightly, firmly, but not sexually, I was surprised to feel, and she just kept going down, down, down on me, massaging as she went.

No, you pervs, she didn't 'go down' on me, okay?

I mean, she could, if she wanted to, but ...

Well, never mind! Don't kill my buzz with your pervy thoughts of what may or may not happen, okay?

Legs. Feet. Toes.

She massaged my whole body, and my whole body felt so, so good!

"Rosalie," I said, so calm, so serene, just floating in her loving care, "have I told you recently that I love you?"

Rosalie was quiet, just as her house, and just as the whole world of Tolland, Connecticut.

"I may have heard you mention that recently, yes," she said wryly.

"I love you, Rosalie Hale," I said, just to be sure she got the message.

Rosalie's lips pressed on my forehead lightly. "Thank you, sweetie."

Rosalie's hand stayed on my shoulder, a soft touch reminding me that she's here, that she's with me. She covered me with the sheet from her bed, and her voice whispered into my ear.

"Honey," she laughed lightly at her own joke. I didn't get it, but I smiled with her laughter.

She continued: "I'm going to step away for a few minutes ... don't ... sweetie, don't worry," she said, because I guess I tensed up, and I guess it showed on my face. "I'm just going down to the kitchen, and prepare a little something yummy for you, and I'll be back. I'll be gone ten minutes tops, so relax," she said soothingly now, "rest, ... sleep if you'd like, and I'll come right back, okay?"

"Okay," I said, very relaxed again.

"You want music while you're resting?" she asked.

"No," I said, "I like the quiet."

"Okay," she said, and kissed me on the forehead again.

It was quiet.

"Rosalie?" I whispered.

No response. She was gone.

I relaxed.

...

"Baby?"

A voice called to me from out of the darkness.

"Baby?"

I felt my head and my upper body being lifted up, then reposed on something warm and lumpy-bumpy.

Rosalie's lap. Pillowed.

She had put a pillow on her lap, and my head was resting on it, resting on her. Her hands began stroking my hair, so gently, patting her little kitty in her lap.

"Sweetie-pie, ..." she called so softy in a sing-song.

I sighed a long, blissful sigh of semi-consciousness.

I didn't want to wake up from this restful nothingness, especially if this were a dream.

But if it weren't a dream, ... if it were really real ...

I opened my eyes to slits.

I saw Rosalie's face. She was smiling down at me.

This had to be a dream. Reality couldn't be this good.

"How's my little baby girl?" Rosalie asked in a little girlish voice.

"Uh," I grunted.

I think that somehow translated into 'I've never been better, and can we stay like this forever, please?'

I think that's what that meant, but I don't really have the energy to do anymore than just think that thought as my head rests in her lap.

Rosalie smirked, amused at mute little me.

"So, how much did we weigh today? Are we doing better?" she asked sweetly.

"Ugh," I couldn't stop that exhalation of air, either.

But talk about buzz-kill.

I shut my eyes and grimaced.

Rosalie was quiet.

"Hm," she said, but now her voice wasn't pleased anymore.

"No breakfast, huh?" she said.

I stayed quiet.

"Bella," she said. "How much?"

It wasn't a question. It was an order now.

I sighed and opened my eyes. "One-oh-four," I whispered.

Rosalie frowned. "That's less than yesterday," she said.

I had nothing to say.

Her hands stopped their patting me.

Rosalie sighed.

"Okay, sweetie," she said calmly, but her voice was certain and decisive now, not sweet anymore. "You know the game we play after school when you want a ride home?"

"Yes," I said.

"I ask you if you're prepared to ride with me, and you tell me you are or you aren't, right?" she confirmed.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, we're going to be playing a new game when I pick you up in the morning now."

"Rosalie, I can't ..." I began, frightened.

"Bella," she chided.

"Rosalie, my mom would ..." I felt panic creeping into my stomach and muscles.

"Bella," Rosalie commanded quietly. "Listen to me."

I listened.

"You," she said, "will do what I tell you, no matter what. That's that. If I tell you to do something, you do it, right away, regardless of who's there, if it's your mom or if it's the God-damn President of the United States. I don't care who else is there when I tell you to do something. You do it. Period. You got me?"

She glared down at me.

"Yes," I said humbly.

"You are mine, Bella Swan," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Say it."

"I am yours, Rosalie," I said sadly.

"You are mine," she reiterated.

"Yes," I said.

"Shh," her brow clouded slightly.

I 'shh'ed.

Her hand began to stroke my hair gently again.

"But that was not the game I was thinking of, Bella," she said, "so just chill the fuck out."

She said the words so evenly, not angrily, but I could tell she was serious.

"I said it was a new game, so it's a new game."

She glared down at me.

"So," she said, seeing I got it, "when I come to pick you up in the morning, I will ask you a question, and you will answer it truthfully. I will ask you, 'Bella, did you eat breakfast this morning?' and you will say, 'Yes, Rosalie, I did,' or you will say, 'No, Rosalie, I didn't,' and after you give either answer, being that you answered truthfully, you will be allowed to get in my car and get a ride with me to school, or wherever the hell I want to bring you that morning, be it school or be it to fucking Topeka, Kansas because I want to buy a fucking dairy cow, for no particular reason. You got me?" she demanded.

"Yes," I said, looking up at her.

Her rides had always been to and from school, but I supposed we had detoured to her house on occasion ... like every day ... so Topeka, Kansas wasn't too far out of the way, I guess.

"You understand the new game and the rules?" she said.

"Yes."

"So I'm gonna say 'Bella, did you eat breakfast this morning?' and you're gonna say what?"

"I'll say, 'yes, I did' or 'no, I didn't,' Rosalie," I said.

"Truthfully," she said, irritatedly.

"Truthfully," I said humbly. "I'll tell the truth."

Not like I could get away with lying to her about anything, anyway.

"That's right, Bella," she said, then she looked away.

"One-oh-four," she muttered angrily.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"'I'm sorry' doesn't cut it, Bella," Rosalie snapped back. "Do you see that? Do you see you're just ..."

She broke off, looking away.

I didn't know what to say.

She reached over to her desk with her long arms and got out the little black notebook. She pulled out her pen and wrote something, my weight, I guess, in the book, and then tossed it and the pen back onto her desk.

"One-oh-four, Bella," she said. "Yesterday it was one-oh-six, now it's one-oh-four."

"Rosalie, please ..." I said sadly.

"Bella," Rosalie said softly. "Do you see how this hurts me?"

"Yes, I do," I said.

Yes. I did.

"You wouldn't tell me that you didn't eat breakfast. Why? Because you're too proud, that's why! You think you can make it on your own and you don't want to be a bother ... Well, guess what, Bella. You not telling me? And now I have this to deal with? I'm bothered. You get that? I'm bothered, okay?"

Her voice wasn't soft anymore. It was quiet, but it was unhappy. It was displeased.

"I ... don't know what to do to make this better," I said.

My voice was so small next to hers.

"Yes, you do. You knew. You could have told me this morning on our way to school, and we could have done something about it. But no. You wanted to suffer all on your own, but guess what, Miss One-oh-four, guess who's paying for your suffering?"

"You are," I said.

Two tears, one on each of my cheeks, slid onto her pillow.

Another thing for me to wash. My punishment.

"That's right, Bella," she said coolly. "I am. And I know what to do about it, unlike you. You, obviously, know what to do to make it worse."

She was relentless. Her words just kept knifing into me, making me feel worse and worse than I already did. More tears fell.

"And ... God, Bella! ..." she exclaimed.

I sobbed. She ignored it.

"You know you need calcium. You know that, Bella. A girl, who has some growing left to do, doesn't she? Don't you, Bella! You need calcium for your bones and, ... but ... 'oh, the milk is spoiled, so I guess I'll skip the most important meal of the day!' Did you even pay attention in any of your classes before lunch? Or were you just daydreaming of me and letting your grades slip further, huh, Bella?"

She was asking me questions I had no answers for.

She waited.

I had nothing to say for myself. I'm poor. I'm stupid. I'm hungry. I'm tired. I'm inattentive. I'm ...

I'm crying, softly, my head in her lap, tears falling onto her pillow.

Rosalie watched me cry, not cruelly, not remotely...

She watched me like she was a terminator, watching a human, seeing me cry, and observing it, emotionlessly, like it was something to record.

Human: sad. Human: crying. Observed.

Just that.

"Bella," she said softly. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," I said.

Then I sobbed. The sob broke through my chest and scratched my throat as it came out.

I realized I was 'a little' hungry, because that's all I could afford to be.

And most days, I couldn't afford even that.

My sob petered out to a sad moan, and then I was silent, crying, looking up at her.

"Will you let me feed you now?" she asked.

"Yes, please," I said and sniffled.

"Are you my good girl, Bella?" she asked.

"I..." I blinked causing two more tears to break free from my eyes and slide down my cheeks. "I don't know," I said sadly. "I guess not, I guess I shudda ..."

"Bella," she scolded, "you are my good girl if I say you are."

I was quiet.

"Now," she said, trying again, "will you be my good little girl and play this new game each morning I come to your ..." She stopped and frowned.

Rosalie just couldn't get her head around my situation in life. There but by the grace of God go she, I guess.

She started again: "When I come over to give you a ride?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good girl?" she asked.

"Yes."

"My good girl?" she demanded.

"Yes, Rosalie," I said softly.

She smiled lightly at that. "My good girl," she cooed. "My good, good girl."

She was just so happy now, so pleased.

I smiled hopefully up at her and sniffled.

She reached over to her desk and grabbed a tissue.

"Blow your nose, baby," she said, and held the tissue to my face.

I blew out my sadness, my yuck, onto the tissue, and she tossed it casually into her trash can. She took a wipe and wiped away the tracks of my tears.

She smiled down at me.

"Now," she said lightly, "let's take care of that calcium deficiency."

She took something into her hand and turned her hand to me, showing me.

"plain siggi's skyr" it said.

Ick. Plain. I felt my nose crinkle.

The stuff was bad enough, having no sugar additives, but plain was just ... sour.

Rosalie smiled down at me.

"Now, now, Bella," she said. "I will feed you, and you will eat, and that's that. Got me?"

"Yes, Mother," I pouted.

... and cringed.

Rosalie can be really ... touchy about things, and when you tease back, she can take it personally and be furious, just like that.

Her face was thoughtful.

"Bella, ..." she said.

I didn't dare breathe. She could twist my head right off, right now, and there'd be nothing I could do about it. I could run, and she could kick me down the steps, and then it'd look like an accident.

Body found at Hale residence. Girl, teenager, no history, no future. Neck broken, running down stairs.

Rosalie bent her head forward and her perfect golden hair swept over my face, veiling it, so the only thing in the universe for me was her face, her unreadable eyes.

"Remember when I said," she said, "that if you were a good girl, what I would give you?" she asked.

She whipped her hair back, and most of it cascaded back, a few strands remained, connecting us together.

She took out a tablespoon of yogurt from the cup.

"Open your mouth, sweetie," she said.

It was all so surreal. I was asleep. This was a dream.

My mouth opened, and she put the scoop of yogurt in.

My eyes widened in shock as the yogurt evaporated in my mouth. It wasn't plain at all! It tasted like honeyed yogurt.

Rosalie smiled sweetly down at me. "My own special recipe," she purred, pleased, "I made it myself while you were resting. I thought you'd like it."

She thought right. I blinked two more tears.

"Sh, sh-sh-sh," she said consolingly.

She scooped out another tablespoonful and brought it to my mouth.

"Now, this time, don't swallow, okay, honey?" and she smiled warmly.

And this time I got the joke.

I'm her honey, and she feeds me her honey.

I took the honey-yogurt into my mouth, trying to keep it there.

It was ... hard.

My mouth automatically flooded with saliva, feeling that there was food there to eat, and I was so, so hungry.

But just a little.

Rosalie's arm wormed under my neck and she lifted me up to her ...

She lifted me up to her ... mommy, and she gently rubbed her nipple against my mouth, until I opened my mouth, gratefully receiving her breast, drooling quite a bit over it, my saliva and her honey-yogurt, and I took her into me.

"Yes, baby," she cooed softly. "That's it. Suck. Suck mommy's tit, baby."

And I sucked. And my arms wrapped around her, holding me up, holding me, firmly, into her.

And she sighed.

And then ... I must have been crying again, because I felt tears hitting my cheek.

I looked up to her face, looking down at me, and I saw tears coming out of her emotionless eyes.

"My baby," she sighed, and her breath hitched for a second, and she sighed again ... or was she ... sobbing? softly?

"My baby," she sighed.

And the tears fell.

A/N: Yes.

That.

Okay. Sandra Bullock. I will be her fucking baby. I will be her baby in diapers and nurse at her breast. I will ... let her strap on and stuff me with her big, purple sausage and bear her love-child. Or, Hell, I'll strap on and put my babies in her and make her quicken into a wonderful roundness and beauty, if she wants, but she strikes me as a top, yes? But, like, whatever ('whatever' meaning, 'whatever she wants')!

I mean. Okay. Seriously? Let's take score: one space shuttle, two space stations (or Russians: 0, Chinese: 0, Sandra Bullock: 3 million), tons of space shrapnel, ... Hell, throw in the whole damn Planet Earth and who comes out on top?

Told you she's a top.

And George Clooney. George-fucking-Clooney, a man's man, a manly man, a Perfect storm, fucking idiot man, just so strong and manly with his baby blues, so headstrong and full of himself ... like I said, a man, and that's not bad at all, and that sure as hell isn't good, it just is. But ... who was it who crawled out of the water and then got to her feet, towered above the Earth, dwarfing the distant mountains and walked away, head held high?

Was it George Clooney? Nope. Don't think so.

Sandra-oh-my-fucking-God-Bullock, that's who.

I would so be her Bella-baby. I would be the four-year-old daughter she lost when her little girl hit her head playing tag and that was it. And ever since Sandra's been suffering, just driving and driving anywhere, nowhere. Nowhere to stay without her baby in front of her eyes, nowhere to go, but to just drive and drive and drive.

But I'd probably have to pick a number now, dammit! And it'd be like a lottery, and would she ... want a girl like me? Or would I be automatically disqualified, or would I have to go mad-scientist(ess) and release a germ that took out all the XY chromosomes in the world so at least I'd have a one-in-a-million chance with the million other girls who've fallen hard for the Sandra Bullock.

Sigh.

(`phfina begins to compose a fangrrl letter:)

Dear Sandra Bullock, I have nothing to recommend myself. I have only my admiration of you, my heart hurting for your hurting heart, and ... nothing else. Nothing else but me.

love, `phfina.

p.s. Take me NAOW, woman, and do wild things to me! (that's just a p.s.-FYI for ya, in case you were wondering, dear Sandra)

... um ... `phfina wakes up, looking around guiltily, surreptitiously wiping away the drool from the corner of her mouth.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, publishing this chapter, and going onto writing the next chapter. Yeah. That's what I was doing. Weird dream, though.

p.p.s. Having watched Gravity has NOTHING to do with Rosalie going all white when she called Bella a three-year-old baby. NOTHING.

p.p.p.s. Ridden is now the longest story I have ever written in my life. I hope you, my dear readers, are enjoying the ride so far. We have a long, long, long-long-long way (I didn't say 'schlong' I said 'way'! JEEZ!) to go, so please pray for me that I am strong enough to keep writing this. Each chapter really takes it out of me, and I'm an emotional wreck right now. Sorry, my dears. I will update when I am able. I hope you understand and are patient with me and tolerant of my little `phfinaescque-y endearing traits.

love, `phfina