I believe last entry I mentioned I O'd U one (1) blog entry.
Here it is.
Are we "cool?" Yes? Alright, good.
I feel as though the best way for me to return to blogging is to simply summarize where I came from, where I've been, and what's happened in the last forty years. (Yes, I am forty now. Please, hold your applause.)
But first I must focus on the present and explain how I broke my arm.
It began with taxes. Every year, for as long as I've been a citizen of the United States, I have done my own taxes. I like taxes because they combine nearly everything I love into one big mess of paperwork: math, rules, logic, et cetera. And every year, for as long as she has been a citizen of the United States, Milla has gotten someone else to do her taxes, because she has more "fun" things to do.
This year Milla and I are filing jointly. More on why shortly, but I'm sure you may already guess why.
The scene? I was sitting at our kitchenette counter, doing taxes, while Milla broke into periodical peals of laughter in the corner over some magazine she was reading. Abruptly, my calculator died.
"Milla," I called. "Pass me the calculator on that desk."
"Get it yourself," she replied, eyes not straying from the page. I must take a moment to note that Milla holds both books and magazines with the page she's not reading bended into the one she is, creating a book of half the width, which bothers me because it bends the book. This is not important to the story, but important to me.
I cleared my throat a few times. Milla heaved a dramatic sigh, got the calculator, and brought it to me. She held it out; I reached for it. It was a few inches out of my reach.
"Stretch for it, sweetie," she teased, waving it.
Now, at this point, a smarter man might have snatched it telekinetically from her. But then, a smarter man might not have been distracted by a pretty woman waving a calculator at him in the first place.
So I pushed my stool onto two legs and stretched a little more, and she pulled away a little more, and you already know the outcome: my stool turned over and I crashed to the ground. Again, a smarter man might have caught himself using levitation. But sadly, infatuation turns men into idiots, and I had made the unfortunate assumption that Milla would catch me, while Milla had made the unfortunate assumption that I would catch me.
"Ohmigod!" she gasped, kneeling. I recall this part first because I had an excellent view of her calves and her high heels. Gray plaid with some red in them, a silver buckle by the toes. Very cute little shoes. "Sasha! Sasha, darling, speak to me!"
"I believe my arm is broken," I said.
And so it was. A fracture right by the elbow, necessitating a cast and a sling and somewhere between six to eight weeks of healing. The most embarrassing part is that this was entirely preventable. I was not on a mission in Kuwait, or spying on international criminals, or crossing through enemy lines. I was being teased by my wife and was too stupid to catch myself, despite being fully capable of doing so.
So now we get to my timeline. I shall make it short and sweet, since we all know most of my story already.
I was born to a shoemaker in Duisburg, West Germany. My psychic abilities manifested themselves at an early age and subsequently caused me to run away at age 12. I wandered my way northward, eventually immigrating illegally to the States via boat. As my English improved, I began to seek out others like myself. I was lucky enough to meet Alice, a retired agent of what was then called the PTU. She took me to headquarters, where I met then-Grand Head, Agent Boole, and was put under the mentorship of Agent Ford Cruller. I showed unsurpassed talent and was matched with what seemed to me like a very unlikely partner, a young women from Brazil named Milla Vodello. Milla and I had little in common. We spent the first few years of our time rather cold to each other, keeping the relationship purely professional. It was only after a few dangerous missions on our own, without our mentors to aid us, that we learned to rely on each other. I moved into a condo in downtown Manhattan and spent my free time either studying psychic matters, with strong emphasis on the genetics and chemical reactions, to say nothing of course of the psychological implications, while Milla spent hers clubbing and breaking the hearts of a good many men. On our cases, we filled in each other's gaps quite nicely. As far as cases go, there were a memorable few: there is, of course, the ever-present Spait case. Spait was one of the few true know biokinetics in the world, a man with the psychic ability to take over a person's mind and control their bodies. It took us nearly a decade to catch him, and when we finally did, it was not without fatality. And then there was the northeastern African mission. I don't need to specify which one; everyone knows which one, because Milla and I were held hostage and tortured for months. We do not talk about this case. And then, of course, there was the psitanium smuggling case. This case was notable for two reasons: one was that it represented a huge breach in security for the agency, and the other was that I was injected with psitanium during some of my undercover investigations. Psitanium is a fascinating compound; much like diphenylhydramine HCL, its nature changes by its dosage. Small, unconcentrated amounts of psitanium stabilize the psychic mind and focus it. Large, concentrated amounts block our powers completely. This was the first time in my life I have ever known what it was like not to hear the world around me mentally. It was perfectly silent and very disconcerting. But my experience is irrelevant compared to the long-term consequences. The breach in security at first caused there to be some changes in the agency. As time progessed, the PTU grew more and more oppressive; finally, there was a full-scale meltdown, with most psychics abandoning the agency and going into hiding. The agency panicked and rounded up those left, injected them with psitanium, and held them like prisoners until they could figure out what to do. Milla and myself bounced around; first to her family for asylum, since we had assumed them psychic like us, until they revealed Milla was, in fact, adopted; then to my family, where, after over three decades, I told my father about my powers; briefly, we stayed with other psychics in hiding in an abandoned shack in the middle of Asia; and, finally, after a long time, we were able to come home. The agency disbanded and restarted as an independent organization, modeling itself after the English ESP. The psychics who were jailed were released; most left and have not been heard from since. Others went to other organizations, like the ESP. Those of us who came out of hiding got a nice deal; room and board, our old jobs back, all our needs and desires taken care of. Of course, I lost all my bank accounts and my Manhattan condo, but at least I am not dead or in jail. Upon setting foot once again on American soil, Milla and I did three things: firstly, at the airport, I bought cigarettes and she bought makeup; secondly, we went to McDonald's; finally, we got married. There was no to-do about it. Milla has been my best friend, my partner, my pillow, and my rock for over twenty years now. We've always had each other. It took the agency dissolution and the threat of death to make me realize it. We had only a few witnesses and told no one; we moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment in a building on a military base on the east coast, along with many other families of psychics. There is now a small community of us, numbering several hundred. Many of my old friends are here. Agent Zanotto, for example, and Agent Davis, and Agent Oleander, and Agent Rogers, and Agent Shive. Some, like Agent Cruller, are still in hiding, though occasionally we receive messages from them (of course, we cannot reply back, as their locations are hidden and their minds well-blocked). As the present stands, I suppose I am happy. I have Milla and very few material possessions, which is fine with me. Agent Shive has the unique ability of being able to predict precisely when people will die by touching them; a late-night drinking session ended in his grim prediction of my own death two years from now, leading me to evaluate all I've done and consider the next two years. I'm overall pleased. As a psychic agent of the most powerful skill class (IV; under new agency regulations, yes, I am both PSC and ASC IV) with a very beautiful, if not arm-breakingly playful, woman, I think I am proud of where I've come from. I doubt very much that, if you had asked the fifteen-year-old version of myself where he thought he would be at age forty, he would have predicted something such as this.
So now, we are all squared away, Blog. You know where I've been, and where I am. You see the agency is much different now, and I finally bit the bullet and put a ring on Milla's finger, though without all the pomp she and her parents wanted out of a ceremony. You see I live what could be considered the country now, no longer the city, and that I spend most of my time in the labs here, while Milla has taken it upon herself to continue teaching the children here, both a basic education and a psychic-oriented one. And you maybe judge me a little for it, that I would settle for this sort of hum-drum thing. But after a long time of chasing criminals and running from collapsing agencies, I am happy to have entered the eye of the storm. Though I'm quite sure that I'll have more than one more good chase before my time here ends, and that of course Milla will be by my side through it. (Even as I type this, she is doing her imitation of me typing on a blog. I don't ever recall sounding like a Brooklyn sailor, but then again, Milla has never been any good at echokinesis.)
And of course, what with all this ridiculous talk of "love," I have to address Valentine's Day.
Milla and I agreed (meaning that Milla told me and I didn't argue because I dislike arguing with her) at the beginning of February that we should have a "completely selfless" Valentine's Day. Apparently, this meant that we should get each other gifts we hated but the receiver liked. (I hinted strongly that the number one thing I would like, that Milla would hate, would be not to celebrate Valentine's Day at all, but Milla refused to buy into such an ingenious present.)
And so when the clock rang midnight, Milla happily frolicked to our living room and ripped open the box I had waiting for her, complete with a homemade bow. This, as I saw it, fit perfectly with the "theme." You see, Milla likes unnecessary decorations like bows, and also likes the tackiness of homemade shit. I hate unnecessary decorations, and think bows are wasteful and stupid and pointless, and hate making them even more than buying them.
Of course, Milla's box was empty, except for a note telling her precisely where her gift was.
Because, Blog, we're on such intimate terms, what with you knowing my life story, and my using you as a mechanism to explore my own mind, I might as well tell you what I got her, though I will never divulge this to any of my fellow agents, and not even Ford will ever know.
Milla often tells me her "type" is a "bad-boy." I like to think that I fit this "type," as I wear sunglasses indoors and shoot criminals in the face with streams of mentally focused electricity. But when I told Milla this, she laughed for fifteen minutes and reminded me of the time I had an anxiety attack because I thought my hand sanitizer was contaminated. (It turned out it wasn't, though.)
So, after my arm was broken and I was loaded up on morphine for the pain, I decided to really go the mile for her and get a tattoo. Ach, why the hell not, Blog? It's our first Valentine's day together; she loves the things; if Clayton is right and I have only two years to live, why shouldn't I? So I got "You Are Beautiful" in Portuguese around an orchid, Milla's favorite flower, and sure enough, she loved it. She's horrified, of course, that I would do such a thing. Actually, so am I. I keep wondering if the needle(s?) were sterile. Of course they were. Also it's very tacky and colorful. But so is Milla, and I do love her. If my tattoo and my broken arm say anything about love, it's that it truly is both unconditional and completely illogical. I just hope she doesn't expect me to continue to do such ridiculous stunts in the future. One tattoo, smaller than a box of cigarettes, is the most I'm willing to get for her, love be damned.
Milla managed to outdo herself also, of course. Her gift was wrapped in two boxes, one on top of the other, in duct tape: plain, gray, simple, and practical. The boxes were moist and slightly damp and reeked of chemical sterility. Upon opening them, I found a human brain and a human heart.
"The brain's really for you," she explained breathlessly. "But the heart is because..."
"I know why," I said quickly. "Danke, Milla."
We exchanged a brief kiss.
The heart bled all over the inside of our fridge, leading me to a glorious two-hour cleaning spree. The perfect gift, in my opinion.
I look forward to seeing you next week, Blog. Let's never fight again.