| Lisa: Intro and Overture An introduction to the troubled author Lisa's autobiographical writings, past and present. The memoirs will be loosely based on some of my early experiences. I come to you tonight from my sofa, sitting with a cup of coffee and my laptop on the coffee table in front of me and a bunch of pillows propped up behind me. I haven't been feeling well for the past few weeks and it's only getting worse, and I'm waiting for the doctor to call me about some test results next week, but that's neither here nor there to you I suppose. I should probably be in my bed, snuggling up to my young lover and getting some rest. She is naked in there, curled up on her side sleeping peacefully, the little girl from upstairs. Her name is Angie, she is eleven years old and she is in the sixth grade. She has auburn hair and bluish-green eyes, full red lips, olive-skinned with an incredible butt and legs. She is petite for her age and a little plump around the midsection, and I have had to tell her not to be self-conscious, that these things are as beautiful to me as the rest of her, and they are. Her name is Angie. The past month, the past three months, the past six months... have been a revelation. It has all come down to Angie, the motherless child. Oh, she did have a mother, a very loving one, but she lost her two years ago to cancer. How fitting that I should come back after my sister Suzy's death from cancer three months ago to find Angie living upstairs! We were friends from the start. She loved hanging around with me, and I loved having her around. It was one week after my mother died, Halloween weekend, when Angie became more than my friend, but I am running on... What all of this comes down to is that there is much to tell, not only about the recent past but about my early years, and I don't even know where to begin. I know my words look good on the screen but my brain's pretty fucked-up right now, vis-ŕ-vis my recent decline and medical tests. However, I don't know how soon I am going to feel better and, for some reason, I feel the urge to move forward. Perhaps it is the fear that my time may be limited to tell what I have to tell. So what I have decided to do is just write what I feel when I feel like writing about it, sometimes writing what would seem a journal entry, sometimes writing an actual memoir, sometimes combining them into a piece of prose. I will do my best to stay on-theme, on-topic, and hold your interest. One thing I can promise you is honesty. After all, I am Lisa and I only lie to the occasional bill collector. I just wrote an introduction of the things in my past I was going to write about... then I deleted it. I didn't know what was too much and what was too little. Shit! I feel like an idiot now. Well, the crux of it is that we grew up with a neglectful, abusive mom and my big sister Suzy and I were very close because of it. That situation, as well as others that rose out of it, coupled with the fact that I am submitting these stories to this site, should tell you of their major themes. They are not all neat and pretty... But so much for my little introduction... I am now sitting on a chair in my bedroom across from my bed with my laptop on an old yearbook on my lap. It is warm in here. Angie has rolled over facing this way and pushed the covers down. Her tiny budding breasts rise and fall. Her hair is mussed. I love that hair. It reminds me of autumn leaves, more brown than red. When I first met her at the end of summer, it was sun-bleached from swimming and seemed to have all the colors of the autumn forest. She was so tan then, walking into the laundry room, startling me. "Hi, my name is Angie." I had just finished having a good cry over my sister. I wasn't much in the talking mood, but she was so personable, so bright, she was impossible to resist. Now here she is in my bed. "Oh my God", I keep saying. Is it a good "Oh my God" or a bad "Oh my God"? Sometimes it is one and sometimes it is the other, to be perfectly honest with you. Do I love her? Yes, and I know there are people who would argue with me. Is it really love, or is it simply my unnatural desire for a female bordering on pubescence? Well, I do know that I love Angie, that I want to make her happy as a person and a friend, and that she makes me happy. But what does she feel? "I love you," she has said. She will repeat it back to me while we are making love. She said it a few times on her own before we became lovers, but now it seems different. That worries me. Yes, I do worry about her. I worry about what she is thinking. I know that she enjoys kissing me, that she enjoys... all of it, but when she gets upstairs, alone, does she ever get confused. Has she shed tears over it? She was already a bit of a loner in school when I met her. Does she sit at her desk feeling even more isolated now? I don't know. I can't know. And when the time comes to ask these things, I do not ask them. Don't get me wrong, ladies and gentlemen. Although I have always had to make to make the first move, she always responds with tenderness and sweet smiles. And as far as love goes, I do believe that she feels something very deep for me. Her embrace grows tighter every time she says goodbye, and her kiss is more lingering. Perhaps the attachment she has for me may turn out to be unhealthy, taking her away from other, more wholesome pursuits, but at this point we are together. I don't know what to do but let things unfold, for better or worse. As I sit admiring her sweet young body in the dim light, I look back on thirty-nine years of uncertainty. It has always been like this, hasn't it? But finally I've stumbled and fallen and made this little ass of myself. So is she the girl of my dreams? I don't know if there's ever been one. I've had my fantasies, masturbated to many, but that's all over. Angie is here and now and her flesh looks perfect and soft to the touch. I'm weary and achy from sitting up and I want lie down next to that flesh, warm myself next up against it and sleep. So now that I've told you what's going on with me tonight, and what my plans are, here's a little poem, my friends... My night is done
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