It's a Minty, Minty, Minty World Once Again! Or, How I Discovered That There are Still Superheroes Among Us

Alright, alright... I know I said this was a four part story, but what can I say? Plans change.

Deal. The story will be concluded soon (possibly tomorrow). For now, this will have to do...

_________________________________________

Yes. I did this to myself... It was all a result of hubris. I underestimated the devious character of Monsieur Redneck and I paid the price.

Now it was time to pick up the pieces as best I could, so that I could live to fight the forces of darkness, entropy and standardized testing another day.

So I pulled myself together and did a mental once-over... My hands were bound behind me. The ropes chafed, but they weren't cutting off the circulation to my hands. My head pounded as though I were being hit in the head with a small, golden hammer. My feet were numb, the ropes there having been tied much tighter.

Still, the biggest problem facing me, was, quite literally, facing me.

Damn I hate spiders.

Yes, I'm a Buddhist.

Yes, I go out of my way not to kill them anymore.

That doesn't change the fact that their hairy, icky, bloated bodies and their evil eyes fill me with "a nameless dread," as the saying goes.

Task number one: Escape the spider.

After that, all other tasks would seem as enjoyable as that first cold, sweet spoonful of mint chocolate heaven.

Concentrating violently, I strove to ignore the pain in my head. Yes, I accepted that it was a pain I actually deserved in recompense for my stupidity of the previous day. Still, it was hard to ignore. I pushed past it and pictured the blood flowing back into my poor feet. After what seemed like forever, I started to feel that painful tickle that means circulation has been restored (Mother of Carlos, I love the power of my mind).

As soon as this occurred, I slowly moved my legs forward until they were touching the wall, and with a considerable amount of heavy breathing, pushed myself as far away from the wall and the dreadful arachnid as I was capable of maneuvering. Granted, it wasn't a perfect plan, but the farther I was away from that beast's baleful stare, the more clearly I would be able to think.

After what seemed like an eternity in a dentist's waiting room, but was in reality probably only 10 minutes or so, I felt that I was relatively safe. Yes, the horrible thing was still on the wall, but I could see him and I figured he wasn't close enough to leap off, land on my face and bite me on the eyeball... So I began to work loose the bonds on my wrists. I wasn't having much luck when I heard approaching footsteps on the ground outside the shed.

I stilled immediately, slumping as bonelessly as I could to the floor of my hovel. I hoped that when my captor came in I could successfully pretend to be asleep.

For the first time in what feels like a hell of a long stretch, luck was with me.

The door creaked open and one of Monsieur Redneck's two sheep-faced companions entered, carrying something. The something reeked like 3 day old sushi, and Sheep Boy #1 didn't smell a whole lot better. Even though my stomach was desperate for sustenance, it did a rolling leap through a spinning black hole at the smell now filling the cabin.

Sheep-Boy#1 took a quick step in my direction, leaned forward to examine me (presumably for signs of life), and then set down the bucket he carried with a thump. There was a second thump as something smaller hit the floor, probably a spoon.

Then, for about a minute, he just stood next to me. He didn't move. He didn't say anything.

I couldn't even hear him breathe. (Which was a miracle, because I'd identified him just the previous day as a definite mouth-breather).

Then, suddenly, as though he'd finally come to a decision about something and wasn't going to waste any more time, he got down on one knee and pulled on my shoulder to roll me over on to my face. I felt him pull my arms up, almost out of their sockets, and with a quick jerk (presumably from a knife) my hands were free falling to the floor.

Getting up to his feet with a small grunt, he walked out of the hut and closed the door. I heard a metallic sound that must have been a padlock snapping shut and then his receding footsteps. I strained to hear anything else, but all I could hear was the muffled sound of birds and the drone of a twin engine plane taking off from somewhere. This last was good news, as it meant that I was probably in Deering, relatively close to home.

I slowly stretched, checking to make sure that all parts were operating to regulation specifications, and then pushed myself up from the floor and onto my knees. I checked the bindings on my ankles and discovered that they were some kind of fancy looking plastic doohickey's that could be tricky to get out of... still, I could move my arms, so there was hope on the horizon...

It was then that I finally realized...

I was not alone in my little hovel.

There was a cat.

As I watched in surprise, it sauntered over to the bucket of fish slop, sniffed, sneezed, reached up to smooth a whisker that had gone astray, looked up at me, winked one eye shut, and turned pink. Yeah, I said it.

Actually, pink isn't really a good enough word to describe this cat's day-glo color. She was so brightly pink she seemed to burn with cold, neon fire.

She was so pink, they need to make up a new word for pink.

Squeezing both eyes shut, she made a face that is as close as any cat ever comes to a smile, and said, "I brought some help. Seymour sensed something was wrong. He's bringing some friends... There's more going on here than you think. See ya, Sensei."

So saying, she made a leap for the one window in the shed, shedding her cat form as she went and becoming a bright orange butterfly. She landed once on the sill, flapped her wings, and sailed off into the October day like a lively maple leaf.

Hope had arrived... and her name was Lizzard.

And Now... The Pirate Queen Minty Quest Leads Headfirst into Danger

Okay, so here's the thing... you already know that it's been a rough couple of months... I've been adjusting to the new situation and it hasn't always been easy... Truthfully, it hasn't been easy even once.

Sadly the effect on my psyche has been to punch an SAU-sized hole into my formerly indefatiguable confidence and perkiness.

Naturally my charm, wit, beauty and modesty remain of course... but the confidence is lacking.

You are about to embark on the 3rd section of a 4 part story about how I got my cheerfully exuberant self back after learning a hard, painful lesson... and as all such stories go, the Nadir must occur before the Apotheosis. (If you don't know what those words mean, it's an indication that you never took my Myth and Symbols class...and now you never will. Oh well, sucks to be you).

My point is... just in case you are worried... I will prevail.

But it's going to get pretty dark first.

So be ready for it.


I'm just sayin'.

Now on to the story part of this thing...


Although my own curiosity and irritation with Monsieur Redneck had directed me to choose the road away from snack foods; as I followed the John Deere cap out into the parking lot of the convenience store, I found it simpler and more fulfilling to blame him.

It was all HIS fault I wasn't filling my gullet with minty-chocolate goodness.

He would pay for this outrage.

I filled my tank with 1.29 gallons of gas (Go me!), and ducked quickly into the driver's seat. Revving my engine, I scanned the lot quickly and saw my foe's truck (naturally) pulling out onto Rt-202/9.

I waited a beat for a car to pass and merged with traffic myself. Thanks to the ugly black smoke that belched from Monsieur Redneck's 4x4 beast of death, he was easy to follow. Also, he didn't really go far. After approximately 1.4 miles he pulled into the parking lot of a local redneck dive, The Gangsta Shack. I pulled in, parked at the opposite end of the lot, and waited to see what would happen next.

The answer is...

Not much.

*sigh*

He got out of his truck and pimp-rolled (NH redneck style) into the charming establishment.

Before I go further, let me just paint for you and illustration of this lovely venue.

The building itself was a marvel of architecture... The marvel being that it had remained standing as long as it had. Built in the late 70's, when the American Redneck Post-Modern Craftsman Style had been in high demand, it was entirely square in every way. Although there was a cinder block foundation, it was cracked and seemed to have grown tired of being in the same place, so it had begun to lean a bit to the left. The blocks themselves had been painted a bilious sea-green at some point in the 1980's by someone with a sense of humor.

The rest of the exterior was painted in a whimsical argyle pattern (oh yea, I said it). In places, the argyle appeared to be entirely plastered over by black trash bags, but on a second look it became apparent that the trash bags weren't simply plastered across the face of the building randomly; they were actually, a cheap and yet, not at all, disturbing substitute for windows.

I have often pondered, while passing this particular establishment, what the point was behind having window frames when one has no intention of ever filling said frames with glass, but I had never been able to answer the question to my satisfaction, since I was not at all interested in ever entering the establishment to assuage my curiosity.

The good news is, I learned the reason for trashbags instead of windows.

The bad news is, I learned that reason the hard way.

And here at last, we come to the action...

I walked through the doorway into the The Gangsta Shack about ten minutes after my prey. Scanning the room slowly I made my way to the bar and waited to be served. The barmaid, a depressed woman of about my age, was plunging dirty glasses into a tub of soapy water that smelled strongly of bleach and then quickly running the glasses under a stream of water. She managed to deal with each glass so quickly that I found watching her to be an almost Zen-like exercise; it wiped all other thought out of my mind. Thus, when she asked me, "What'll ya have?" It took me longer than usual to respond.

My brain stumbled and fell down a set of deep stairs into my stomach. By which I mean, I suddenly realized that I was in a bar, alone, tracking a red neck... and I had no money.

Not for the first time in my life, I thought, "What the hell is WRONG with me?"

It was then that a voice behind me spoke the words which will live on in infamy until the day I perish in a burst of flaming glory...

"I bet she'd like some tequila!"

Don't even pretend to be surprised... I know you were expecting this all along. Yup, it was my friend Monsieur Redneck. He had emerged from what was apparently a gentlemen's bathroom, where he had managed to find two other men who looked like they had been cloned from the same sheep. Now all three were standing just behind me, grinning. Their smiles did nothing at all to hide, or even disguise, the evil coldness in their eyes or the almost sulphurous stench of hell they carried with them.

Then again, perhaps the smell was just something they'd acquired from their sheep relations...

But that's all extraneous. The point is...

Before I entered their domain, I thought I was so smooth. I was so ready, thinking I could just slide back into my old, kick-ass, Pirate Queen persona.

I'd been so cocky.

The past three months of my life had completely disappeared momentarily, and I'd been convinced that my old confidence and fearlessness was back...

Instead, what I discovered was...

The confidence had been a momentary delusion... brought on by a sudden craving, lonliness, and a desire to have that old righteous anger back.

I wasn't tough.

I wasn't a Queen.

What was I?


Answer... very, very stupid.

I should have left the building right then, running if necessary...

But oh no, I didn't.

Two hours, 8 shots, and 6 games of pool later, I found myself flying head first out through one of the plastic covered windows and landing in the parking lot in a smelly, painful heap.

I learned a valuable lesson before passing out.

It's a bad idea to drink tequila, play pool, and bet on yourself.

It's an even worse idea, when you have absolutely NO money.

And it's a TERRIBLE idea to play pool under such circumstances with someone who has anger-management issues.

So here I am.

Tied up.

In a shed.

My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like something dead crawled into it while I was knocked out, I can't feel my feet, and there is an enormous spider on the wall 8 inches from my face.

So basically...

I'm in HELL.

What will I do next?

Well obviously,

I will prevail.

I Got a Craving and All I Have to Show for it are These Darn Rug Burns

So there I was, innocently shopping for mint chocolate chip ice cream.

There was nothing on my mind except the embarrassment of paying for my purchase with four dollars in dimes and nickels.

Outside, it was quintessential fall day. Leaves were saying goodbye to the tree limbs where they'd lived for so long, and coating the ground like crunchy brown feathers. The wind was swirling their brightly colored corpses into irregular piles. The sun had a golden, tranquil quality that it only seems to get during the fall. If I tried really hard, I could smell pumpkin, cinnamon and wood smoke... though that may only have been my jacket, which usually hangs next to the mantelpiece...

Regardless, I was relatively calm and happy.

Well, I was... until HE came in.

You know the type. You've been out in the back woods, haven't you? If not, allow me to describe this phenomenal specimen of humanity. He was six feet of swaggering redneck. Chippewa boots, Carhartt jeans, a denim jacket, and a John Deere hat, crammed over a greasy buzz cut. The man was a walking cliche. He looked like he'd just stepped out of an LL Bean catalog from some other, less suave dimension, and he was not at all impressed by this world.

However, I don't want you to think that I judge solely by appearances.

The problem was not in the way he looked, but the way he carried himself. He had the affected slouch of a sullen teenager, though he was clearly my age or older. His feet clomped hard on the linoleum of the store, as though with every step he was showing it who was the biggest bad ass who'd ever sauntered across a floor. His upper lip seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer, and when he paid for his gas, he called the cashier "Honey," though the woman was old enough to be his grandmother.

I found that his mere existence irritated the piss out of me. He reminded me of every bully I'd ever gone to school with, every skeezy construction worker who'd ever wolf whistled at a woman minding her own business; every snarky comment I'd ever heard from his type was as fresh in my mind as though it had just been uttered. I felt my stomach knot up with anxiety. Though uneaten and barely out of the freezer section, my ice cream seemed to be melting already from the heat of my sweaty grip on the carton.

I put the innocent cardboard box with the minty treat back in the cool, refreshing freezer, walked up to the counter, and asked to get 4 dollars in gas on pump three instead of snacking.

I had a premonition you see.

That Man was bound to do something... and I wanted to see it. Perhaps if I were lucky, I'd find an excuse for kicking his ass and making him cry like a little girl.

Ahh... hope springs eternal.

Well, fact is, he DID do something.

Unfortunately, the something he did was to turn the tables on me... Hence the rug burn or rather felt-burn.

I never should have followed him into that billiard place... My current psychic condition is not what it once was, and my Herculean self-confidence has been lacking of late.

Perhaps I should have eased back into my pirate persona by doing something less dangerous, such as punching a shark in the eye or eating four-day-old Chinese food out of a dumpster.

But no... but no.

By the way, these ropes are really starting to chafe. I wish I could rely on some superheroes to save me, but most of them are MIA. Guess I'll have to do this myself...

More updates to come.

The Mint Chocolate Chip Debacle

I'm hot and sticky and I smell like a peppermint.

Everything was fine until I had that sudden craving... You know how it happens. Admit it. You've been there too haven't you?

You suddenly think of something you need, something that will make everything right in the world. It could be anything, but in that one moment, you just have to have that thing.

For me, it was mint chocolate chip ice cream.

So I made the trek to Smallborotonville and obtained the thing I sought.

I never thought it would end up like this... Hogtied in a shed in the back woods.

I just wanted some ice cream dammit...

Uh-oh, someone's coming...

I'll be back, hopefully.

Beware of 2am...or, Gotta Love Those Flying Monkeys

It's 2:38am and I just realized that I've yet to tell you about the flying monkey I met the other day... Now the time has come.

Of course, my grandfather always says,

"Nothing good ever happens after 2am."

This was one of his favorite sayings to me as a child, along with, "It's always a mistake to educate women," and, "All good girls should be home and in bed by 10pm."

Ahh...what a progressive that man is.

Still, you've got to love him for being true to himself.

I just like to prove him wrong sometimes.

So here's what...

When I left off previously, I was hanging by my brightly colored fingernails from a ledge on the roof of Borders in Concord. Suffice to say, I survived.

This shouldn't be a shock to any of you, since I'm nothing if not a survivor.

The part that might surprise you is the flying monkey.

Yeah, I said it.

There was a monkey.

It flew.

No, I'm not tripping. The fact of the matter is, I have never consumed any illegal drugs by either choice or by a random act of chance. No judgment of anyone who for his or her own reasons chooses to partake, it's just... Illegal (and even most legal) drugs are not for me. My take on it is, if I'm going to do something stupid... I want to remember it. I always want to be in control of my own actions. I don't want my pain dulled...life IS pain, and I don't plan to miss out on it. Plus, I don't ever want to wake up and think...'Oh God, WTF did I do?' I'm not even a big drinker... in my entire 33 years I've only been seriously drunk 2 times...and one of them doesn't count, since it was anesthetic in nature after hearing that one of my most favorite people in the whole world had died a sudden and violent death.

Anyway, take it for what it's worth... Besides...

This is what I'm like awake, aware and stone cold sober... Can you imagine what I'd be like on illegal chemical/natural/stimulants/depressants?

Yeah, enough said.

So anyway, there I was, hanging by the tiniest thread...

I considered giving up.

In fact, in those few moments I thought long and hard about just... letting go. It would have been so easy... So... very, very easy...

But then I thought, 'Hell no! Why make it easy on the bad guys? I am here to answer the call of all those in distress, all people with spare time on their hands looking for some mindless entertainment! And what will all those uneaten cheesecakes do without me??'

I did not let go.

Nanoseconds later, I was glad that I'd chosen to hang on. If I hadn't, I would have missed out on the chance to fly by monkey.

Naturally, as I clung to the ledge my breathing was rapid, my feet scrabbled against the pebbled side of the building, my arms ached, my fingers were locked in claw position, and my eyes throbbed from the roof dust... I may even have sneezed on the dirt crusting my sinus cavities. As a result, I failed to hear anyone approach.

However, even I couldn't help but notice when the back of my shirt pulled taught, pinching my throat. There was a sharp tug. My fingers began to give way. Though I struggled with all that I had left, the acid build up in my muscles had become more than I could stand.

I finally let go.

But I didn't fall... I simply hung there in mid air, inches from the roof and a few feet away from a possibly painful, and certainly icky, death.

I raised my face to the sky above, certain I would see a fireman, or some sort of rescue professional.

Instead, I saw the brown eyes, hairy face and enormous teeth of a monkey--with gray wings... Huge gray wings.

It was grinning at me.

I blinked, certain that in my last moments on earth I had completely lost it...

Of course, there are some who would say I never had it to begin with, but what do they know?

This hairy, cheerfully smiling savior patted me on the head and then lifted me high into the air. Clutching the back of my shirt in his feet, the monkey carried me to safety and deposited me, dirty but none the worse for it, gently on the ground outside of Lowe's. While I was still bent over, catching my breath and becoming re-acquainted with the ground, he took off without a word, or even a grunt.

When I looked up into the sky, there were no clouds...and no monkey. Still, I hadn't flown over the roof of Borders and into a neighboring parking lot by myself.

I may be a rip-roaring pirate queen... but I do not have wings.

You could have knocked me over with a toothbrush... and I'm no light-weight.

Being a Zen Buddhist, I'm no great believer in angels or demons...

But I do believe in monkeys.

And flying ones are super cool.

I'm just sayin'.


Hey... thanks Monkey.

Reality is Overrated

So I was asked to write a short bio of myself for a job that I recently obtained...

I laughed.

I asked if it was okay for me to write about how I got a scar on my left butt cheek from running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.

The person who requested the bio gave me a quelling look. She seemed to find my response lacking in seriousness.

Suitably chagrined (in appearance at least, if not in spirit) I said, "Okay, I'll write something appropriate."

I wrote an accurate, if slightly boring, biography of myself in 4 sentences.

It was so dull I almost fell asleep while completing sentence number two.

What is with people's obsession with "reality?"

No one seems to understand that I'm all about imagination... Why this insistence on "keeping it real?"

Here's what I really want to say about my own life...

Aikens is a twenty-eight year old Pirate Queen with a history of debauchery and pillaging that ranges as far afield as Montana. She carries a knife in her boot and a metal ruler in her car. She has been known to climb buildings and torture red necks for fun and profit. Aikens steals from the rich and gives their stuff to the needy (she frequently includes herself in the "needy" section). She once leaped from a moving train while traveling cross-country with MCShank on a mission for mental health (her own) and reads Kurt Vonnegut to maintain her dubious hold on sanity. This Pirate Queen's motto is, "do whatever you want, as long as you can live with the consequences."

What's wrong with that bio? It may not be strictly "true" but anyone reading it will certainly learn a hell of a lot more about me than would someone reading a dry recitation of my actual life and accomplishments...

Reality sucks. FIGHT ENTROPY!!!

How to Become a Pirate

Well, I got a question this evening from a party interested in matriculating at Aikens' Subterranean University. This lovely young woman asked me,

"How do I become a pirate?"

Such a simple question... but oh-so-loaded.

I told her that it was simple enough... one merely chooses the pirate lifestyle and never looks back.

Oh, and there is a secret knock too.

But you don't learn about that until after initiation.

The initiation consists of a series of tests.

Keep in mind, the Pirate Lifestyle is not for the faint of heart. Don't commit to it unless you are fond of pain and suffering... most especially the pain and suffering of others (but also for yourself to a certain extent).

I mean, sure, once you're a Queen, like me, it's all cabin boys and treasure... But building a following? That takes cojones of steel my friends.

And then of course, there is the Pirate Pledge of Allegiance, an oath which all aspiring scurvy knaves must take before they can be admitted to the Society of Pillagers.

It's not to be taken lightly.

There's a whole process...

But just remember, becoming a pirate is a lot like anything else...

The first step is admitting that you have a problem.

Hi! My name is Virginia and I'm sick of life as it is! So I've decided to be a pirate! ARGH!! (Audience response: "Hi Virginia!")

See how simple, yet complex it is?

Any other questions? I'd be happy to clarify.

Too Short and Not Nearly Enough Cheesecake

I have come to the realization that in my 33 short years (well, short given the entire span of human history that is) I have not eaten nearly enough cheesecake.

It goes something like this:

Given: To me, cheesecake equals love, happiness, fun, family, friends, etc. In other words, it is the edible equivalent of all the good things in life... A symbol, if you will, of all the best.

Given: Life is far too short. Over the past few months I've really come to appreciate this fact. (For the second time in my life).

Conclusion: Life should contain more cheesecake. Who cares about the fat and calories? I could get smashed to smithereens by a semi while driving to Merrimack today and end up in God's waiting room before you know it.

Bottom line here?

Less stress... MORE CHEESECAKE.

Fighting the Good Fight

Well, tonight, as I hang from a ledge by my fuchsia pink fingernails, I find that I have a few moments of time on my hands (ha ha) to pause and contemplate how difficult it can often be to fight the good fight...

You see, it all began innocently enough...

There I was, at Borders in Concord, looking through the astrology section. I have never really given much credence to astrology but I have flirted with the idea of predestination to some extent.

Recently destiny appears to be rearing it's ugly head... you see, much as I attempt to deny and rage against fate, my career as a Saltminer of some sort, somewhere seems to be following me around like a bad smell...

Anyway, back to the story at hand.

There I was, perusing the in-stock offerings on destiny, when I heard a commotion from the back of the store.

Moments later, two men came rushing past me, shouting that someone was on the roof and threatening to jump.

This intrigued me. You see, though I have been depressed and disheartened, the real idea of just ending it all has never seemed like a viable option to me. Frankly, I consider suicide to be horribly selfish. But that's just me.

Anyway, curious as ever, I sauntered on my spiky red shoes to the back of the store. There was a large crowd of employees just standing there, wondering out loud what to do, other than to call the Concord PD. It only took about 24 seconds before I found myself growing irritated by the crowd's hesitation to act... So I spoke up,

"Hey, I can talk to him. Where is he?"

I must say, it's just like I've always thought...the majority of people are more than happy to let someone else take charge in a crisis... even someone like me, who clearly has no idea what they heck they are doing.

So I went up to the roof and there he was... it was Jericho, my old comrade from South Boston.

He was standing by the edge of the roof, hunched over slightly, peering down at the ground. When he heard me approach he turned. He appeared completely unsurprised by my appearance, which bowled me over because I was shocked as hell to see him.

As per usual, I opened the negotiations with some of my incredibly witty banter, saying,

"Hey."

He, seeming less than impressed, turned back to his search for a painful landing spot. He allowed me to come within about three feet of him before saying,

"Don't even bother PQ. It's over. Besides, I've heard all about your troubles from Seymour, you haven't got any more to live for than I do, so don't even try to tell me 'it's all gonna be alright' or any bull to that effect."

When I first arrived on the roof to see him, I'd been shocked, then sad...but now...

I was pissed.

I fought down the urge to just kick him in the ass with my red shoe by biting the inside of my mouth and taking a long, slow breath. Hoping that somehow inspiration would suddenly come to my rescue in the event that some higher power failed to speak through me, I opened my mouth and started to speak... what came out was a shock even to me... I said,

"I find your whining purile and self serving. If you're really ready to kill yourself and not just making a pathetic cry for attention, then you better do it now before the police get here and put themselves at risk trying to save your disease ridden hide. Honestly, you make me sick with your whining and complaining. Exactly what the hell are you waiting for?"

For a moment his spine straightened and he turned to look at me, considering me seriously for perhaps the first time of our entire acquaintence.

Now it was his turn to look shocked, and then furious.

Thankfully, at this point he was so pissed, he took a step toward me and away from the edge of the roof. Unfortunately, at this point, a siren sounded, startling me and Jericho both.

That would have been fine, if the roof hadn't chosen just that very moment to shift under our feet.

Oddly enough, the roof of Borders in Concord has been leaking for some time... actually that was the reason why Jericho had been allowed to get to the roof, someone thought he was a contractor... It must have been the steel-toed boots...

Anyway, the roof began to, well, slide. Small pebbles began rolling off the roof, as the metal listed to one side. The movement threw both of us flat down to our stomachs. Within seconds my nose was full of dirt and my eyes stung.

'Well, this is just freaking great,' I thought, as I felt myself sliding ever nearer to a painful death.

In another instant my feet were no longer touching anything solid, next went my legs, my torso, and eventually everything with the exception of my brightly polished fingernails. Somehow, I'd managed to find some sort of purchase on the edge of the slipping, sliding section of roof (Mother of Carlos I love aliteration).

This, as I stated at the beginning of this story, gave me just the time I needed to ponder fighting the good fight...

I suddenly realized, that I've somehow been fighting all my life... usually for other people.

This time I was fighting for me.

I don't know how I did it... how I'm doing it...

But I'm holding on with all my might...

Damn.

I hope rescue arrives pretty damn quick.