Bloody

Today is my friend Jen's birthday.

When we were in seventh or eighth grade, I remember specifically a time when Jen told me,

"I like meat bloody. Almost raw. It's kind of weird."

It was kind of weird, and it stuck with me. It conjured this image of her sinking her teeth into raw flesh. She was a sweet looking girl and it was a disturbing image.

Now that she's kind of this queen of horror, that conversation really sticks out for me. And then I think about how many times I caught her reading some episode of Flowers in the Attic, or Mommy Dearest, or the times I went to her house and she was playing with a Ouija board by herself. I tell myself that, had she become the queen of unicorns and rainbows, I would have different memories that stuck out for me. But let's face it: this couldn't happen. The only way she could be queen of unicorns and rainbows is if she were hit in the head in a personality changing way.

There's something about Americans- we don't like to face death, we like to hide it. We even talk in codes, "she passed," "he went to heaven." But there's something fascinating about facing and even celebrating the darker side of things. There is not light without darkness.

Happy birthday Jen! I'll have my steak bloody for you.