Samara O'Shea

The X-Files

I’m trying to clean up my desktop (even computer screens can be messy!), and I just came across my X-tra folder. This folder is filled with journal entries that didn’t make the final cut of Note to Self. I went so far as to type them, so I might as well make use of them right? Here are three (more to come. . .)—one very long entry and two very short ones. They were pulled for a chapter called “People, Places, and Things,” but the chapter itself didn’t make the final cut either. The dates here reflect how they were originally written in my journal.

January 1999 (At the Age of 19)
My first memory of Miss Yvonne formed in the gather area of the wing. I was watching TV, and she sat down beside me. I can’t remember who began the conversation, but it was most likely her. We skimmed the surface a bit with questions about majors and original habitations. Then we moved to foreign lands, England specifically. Talking to Yvonne was like talking to myself. It was relaxing and she put me at ease. She’s wholesome and happy to listen. She was comfortable on the couch with her hair pulled back and a makeupless face. She didn’t strike me as especially beautiful but her look was undoubtedly unique. She had a clean complexion and her cinnamon color skin appeared exuberant and healthy.

Later that evening the wing was clamouring* with hairdryers, aerosol cans, and girls thinking aloud about what they’re going to wear. I absorbed it all. At this time I got my first glimpse of Yvonne the beautiful. She emerged from her room in a female frenzy. She was clad in sandblasted jeans that looked like a part of her body. She had a tiny waste that would have made Scarlett O’Hara cringe with ardent jealousy. She wore a cotton white shirt that was lined with black lace. It too appeared to be as much a part of her skin as the jeans did. It was low cut and crisscrossed in the front revealing the soft skin of two perfectly sized, beautifully rounded breasts. She told us to take note of the shirt. Then she returned to her room and reappeared seconds later in a different shirt. This one was equally as tight but sleeveless. The color was a simple black. This one revealed the shape of her breasts but not the cleavage. Both ensembles flattered her immensely, but I preferred the first one. Something about pure white next to her savvy olive skin was distinguished and classy. Then the question was asked: Which one do you prefer. I was the first to speak and express my satisfaction with the first shirt. Everyone else followed almost simultaneously with a bias toward the second shirt. When girls and clothing are concerned the majority always wins, so my humble proclamation was overruled. But she was attractive and vivacious nonetheless and I enjoyed watching her scurry around. I suppose delightful would be the most appropriate word to describe Miss Yvonne.

* I used to like spelling things the British way.

8 / 3 / 01 (At the age of 21)
I enjoy giving money to homeless people. Especially the musicians. The street saxophone players give New York its flavor.

February 10, 2004 (At the age of 24)
My relationship with time is changing. I can’t explain it. Time dizzies me in a way it never has before. I’m more aware of her. Aware of time my friend and time my enemy.