For John...

I was 18 years old when John Motes was introduced into my life. We met through a mutual friend, and I was smitten right away. He won me over with his sense of humor. Laid back, friendly, with an infectious laugh that could make even the hardest, stone-face, crack a smile. It wasn't long before he and I were inseparable. He was my first real boyfriend. My senior prom date. (I wish I still had photographic evidence, but in a typical pissed off, impulsive, jilted-girl move, I destroyed them all) The minute I graduated high school, I moved into the house he, and several of his friend occupied in Fairfield. I believe it was his grandmother's and he continued living there after she passed on. Sadly, being both young, we both lacked a lot of good sense and made several bad decisions, thus leading to a very messy break-up. Feelings and hearts were hurt and broken. Without going into detail, because they don't matter now, having him back in my life is not something I could have ever predicted.

Looking back on those bygone days, I think one of my most favorite/entertaining/un-fucking-believable memories would be the time, we had come into a little bit of money. Enough to buy food, pot and LSD. We were coming back from collecting everything, but before we started home, John came up with the fantastic idea to go up on Red Mountain, where the transmission towers live, because there was a killer view of the city. Being terrified of heights, I was not on board with the plan, but John could not be talked out of it, so up the hill we drove. About halfway, we passed a cop car going down in the opposite direction. I considered this to be a sign we needed to abort this mission, but John shrugged it off. Oh, and did I mention, we had already dosed and way on our way into an LSD haze, which I guess is what made this excursion so appealing to him and why there was just no talking him out of it. Once we made it to the top of the hill, and John had no luck prying my stiff and frightened body out of the car, he finally gave up and we started making our way back down the hill only to find our path blocked by the aforementioned cop car. The officers got out of their vehicle and John knew the drill. He rolled down the window, and in his slow growl of a voice asked, ''Is there a problem officer?'' They asked to see his license, and then requested he leave the vehicle and come with them. Without hesitation, John complied and I watch as he left our car, and followed the officers, who then put him into the back seat of the squad car. Here is where it gets interesting. Little did the cops know, hidden in John's pants was a quarter of pot and I believe at least 10 hits of acid. It wasn't all for us, mind you, we had people and a party waiting for us back at the house. I just sat there, watching, waiting to be arrested. I could see the top of John's curly hair, but I couldn't tell what might be going on. How I managed to keep my cool, I will honestly never know. I remember thinking, if I lit a cigarette, I would look casual, like ''Hey, no big deal guys! You just keep him in there as long as you want, I'm just going to kick back, have a smoke and plot how I was going to call my grandmother and convince her to come bail me out.'' Because, the longer I sat there, the more I just knew we were going down. It might have only been a few minutes, but it felt as if I'd literally been sitting there my whole life. With great relief, I saw John walking back to our car. His blond curls bouncing as he walked. He slid back into the driver's seat and whispered assuringly, ''We're fine.'' In fact, he knew we were fine the minute they got him in the car. They just wanted to give him a stern talking to about why people are no longer allowed to go hang out with the transmission towers. They ran his priors and at the time, he was clean, so we were let off with a warning. When we got back to the house, we took turns excitedly reliving the details for our friends. Our brush with hard time. I don't know if it was my luck or his that saved us that night, but we lived to tell the tale.

After our tumultuous break up, we lost touch. It was years before I would see him again. I was at a gas station on Southside where my car up and died. I popped the hood and stared at the engine like I had a damn clue what to do about it, when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

''Hey man, is your battery dead?'' (Everyone was either ''Hey man,'' or ''Dude'') I slowly turned to see John, looking dishevelled and barefoot in the middle of an Alabama summer. ''Uh, yeah'' I managed to say, completely stunned to see him and not sure whether I wanted to run, but then I didn't want to leave my car behind. He leaned in, fiddled around with the battery and did some kind of MacGyver trick, that somehow brought my battery back to life. (I would try to explain what he did, but it goes well beyond my realm of comprehension) I thanked him, and he said, ''It's the least I could do. I put you through hell, kid'' Not really knowing what I should say to that, I just shrugged and replied, ''It's OK.'' We said our goodbyes, and that was the last I heard from him. Over the years I'd heard stories and rumors. Heard he'd been in prison, but none of this could be verified.

With time, my anger began to dissipate until it had nothing left. So, when he found me on Facebook in 2009, I was more than happy to welcome him back into my life. I'm grateful I did. Seems John had finally, after years of bad decisions and dealings with the wrong path,  found his way to redemption. He was now extremely sweet and kind. I always knew that person was there, that's why I fell in love with him many years ago. And without all the bullshit, he could finally become the person he was meant to be. Over the years, through the wonders of the internet, we were able to make peace and become close friends. He and I would wear that chatbox out at times. He was there for me, cheering me on. John also had a wonderful wit and sense of humor about his own self and the things he'd done in the past. You know how people always say, ''You'll laugh about this someday.'' That's where we were. We could laugh at those stupid kids, because we had come out the other side and were better for it. Sure, we did some crazy shit, but we had such great stories to tell. He and I planned to write a book together. I still will. For him.

My last most favorite memory of John happened about a year ago. I'd gotten a not so kind e mail from an old boyfriend, accusing me of ''bullying'' him into the relationship and making me out to be a real monster. It messed with my head and I went to John, being a former boyfriend himself, to ask if I were really that bad. He said I wasn't and assigned most of the blame to himself. But, he said this,

 ''Hell, we all have issues, but at least you can look in the mirror and say, 'I might be crazy, but that's OK, and I'M OK!' and if people don't like it, fuck'em and feed'em fish heads, you know what I mean? Don't let some jackass bring you down because he's a miserable little fucker who obviously can't handle a real women, (that's you, btw) Don't sweat the small stuff, kid.''

That meant so much, coming from him. We had found peace with each other, and he was one of my strongest, loudest cheerleaders. And I know he was for others as well. I never told him how much his friendship meant to me. I wish I'd told him. I hope he knew.

I'm saddened beyond belief I will never get to see him again. Hug him. Smoke pot with him. Listen to the Grateful Dead with him. But, I will never, ever forget him. And when I think of John Motes and his impact on my life, it will be with nothing but fondness and genuine love.

Rest in peace my dear friend. You will always have a place in my heart.

''Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
to rock my soul''

Appetite for destruction

It's National Eating Disorder Awareness Week.

In honor of such an occasion and in the spirit of awareness, I thought I would make you aware of mine.

My name is Amy Caroline Exum, and I have a food addiction.

Before you roll your eyes and chuckle dismissively, just hear me out.

I know, when you first think of an eating disorder, your mind leaps right to anorexia or bulimia. And yes, those are very serious and life-threatening eating disorders. But, what if you have it in reverse. I tried the whole 'not eating' for about a day and I became so light-headed and disoriented, I had to make up for it by eating enough for a football team. I am not a fan of throwing up, so that was out of the question. So, when I binge eat, I just hang on to it. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. I've always had what people used to refer to as a 'healthy appetite'. Meaning, I can pack away a serious amount of feed. I remember when I was maybe 6 or 7, my mom and I attended a function at the local church where they were serving hoagies. While my smaller friend had a much daintier portion. ''You're eating a whole hoagie!'' she marvelled, loudly so that other kids wandering around could hear. Not that that had been her intention, but it did pique the interest of some passer bys. They all gathered around as if I were a circus freak attraction. Humiliation was making it hard to swallow or maybe it was because I was used to taking ravenously large bites like a hungry giant. Either way, I had to cram my enormous hoagie to an audience of slack-jawed kids who didn't eat like they were storing for a long period of hibernation. This was the first time it might have dawned on me my eating habits were not normal or healthy. My mom would fret over how much weight I had gained, yet still make me French toast when I wanted. But, it was that very hoagie incident that made me start hiding just how much I ate.

I became a pro at deceptive eating. As a young child, I would strike in the cover of night. Raiding the fridge and cupboards for whatever could be quickly shoved in my greedy mouth. I worked hard on planning my attacks. I would leave stuff where I would easily be able to access it later. Of course, there was always the issue of food being missing and when my parents would come to me for questioning, I would always deny any knowledge of what happened to half that apple pie, or the entire box of cookies, or the bag of chips, etc. How could they prove it. The evidence was in my belly. Of course, the only other suspect was my two year old brother, and he could barely hold a spoon on his own, much less steal food, leaving no mess or crumbs. I was without conviction, but I wasn't without shame.

And that is why I am currently obese. I don't want to be obese. I want to want to be thin more than I want to satisfy the scream of insatiable addiction. And it is officially recognized as an addiction. Studies have shown, for some, the reward and pleasure centers in the brain, that are usually activated by addictive drugs, like cocaine, alcohol and heroin, can also be triggered by food. Food eases my stress. Food eases my depression. Food gives me comfort. Or so the addiction would have me believe. And it's not the good for you foods that cause this magical pleasure center reaction in the brain. No, it's the demon food. The sugars and the fats and the salts and the starches. It's not that I don't enjoy fruit and veggies. I do! Why, just the other night, I had a salad, and boy was it yummy! But, they don't satisfy the beast inside. Not even close. I had a psychiatrist recently tell me, who I'd gone to for help to overcome the addiction, I was just making excuses and needed to simply make healthier choices when eating. Like it's just that fucking easy. Oh right, because I wasn't already aware of that myself. You wouldn't tell an alcoholic to just stop drinking. ''Hey, you, heroin addict. Just stop. Quit it. Be done.'' Needles to say, I never saw her again.

Food gives me a thrill I get from nothing else. That's not entirely true. When I've given up food, and been successful in actually losing weight and maintained a healthy lifestyle, I've merely replaced it with another addiction. Alcohol, drugs, shopping, sex. I never get addicted to anything helpful. And my behaivor becomes more erratic. My moods swings out of control. Staying clean is always just so much work, because I'm constantly battling. I always end up going back. Every time it's worse. And harder to pull away.

When I binge, I go into, what I can only describe as a trance like state. I'm just cramming the food in as fast as I can chew and swallow and get my mouth open wide enough for the next bite. And while it's happening is great. The taste, the reassurance I am no longer depriving myself of what I want. Such a fucking relief. And then, the shame and embarrassment. But, that's OK, because you can always just eat more and make those feelings go away.

Food has destroyed me. I am so big now, I have trouble walking because my body is starting to buckle under the pressure. I am ridiculed every time I leave my house. And I get it. I am quite a site. I'm constantly in people's way. They look at me with disgust. To them, I'm a fat slob who doesn't take care of herself. And they would be right. It's the same when you see a drunk passed out in the gutter. Because it's the same. It's someone who has completely lost control of their lives. If you can even call it having a life. My biggest fear is that I will become one of those people you have to remove from their house with a crane. It's my biggest fear and yet I don't know how to keep from hurtling toward it.

I'm not proud of what I've become. And this isn't about whether or not I have a positive body image. If you're not stick thin and you have some junk in the trunk, be proud of that. Sure, why not. People come in all shapes and sizes, but when you start crossing over from chubby to no normal set of scales can weigh you, there is a problem. The first step is admitting that.

I've been to the doctor, in hopes of getting some kind of medical assistance. I've been put on some kind of weight loss tablets and we're going to see how that goes for three months. I'm going to make myself out a diet plan and try to stick with it. The real kick in the teeth, was he'd done loads of blood work. All normal. Cholesterol is fine. Thyroid functioning normally as are my kidneys, and I am not diabetic. Good news, but I explained to the doctor, I almost wanted something to be wrong. A sense of urgency. Because if I don't have a hard and fast reason, I'm afraid I'll never be able to do it. Am I past the point of no return? Just how far do I have to go before I've pushed my body too far? I don't want to know.

I'm not telling you this so you will feel sorry for me. This is my cross to bear. I just wanted you to hear my side of the story.

The danger of a good kiss

I used to be famous for my crushes. They were not notable for who I had the crush on, but the gusto with which I pursued them. And they came out of nowhere, like a supernova. Sometimes, all it could take was a look, a clever joke, a small act of kindness and my entire focus became all about making this person mine. With the passion and tenacity of a marathon runner, I charged toward the, sometimes unknowing, victim. I bored friends and family with long conversations about them, pouring over every detail, no matter how insignificant. Combing through every piece of evidence, parsing for subtext, as to whether they may or may not, possibly have the same feelings for me.

Nine times out of ten, they didn't. And most stopped short of getting a restraining order against me. I truly feel sorry for anyone who ever had the misfortune of being the object of my desire. But, what can I say, I was boy crazy. And John Hughes made being young and in love seem so appealing, and I just wanted to know that feeling. The closeness of another human being. Someone you could share your mundane life with. I put everything into finding that feeling. And when I did find it, oh, it was glorious.

You always remember your first kiss. Mine was a boy called Shawn when I was 14. He was my best friend at the time, and one of the few boys for which my feelings remained pretty much neutral. Not that he wasn't cute, just didn't as my grandmother would say, ''didn't trip my trigger''. And that was fine, and for the best seeing as how we worked very well just being pals.

It was during the summer, and we'd been hanging out by my pool, when he suddenly leaned over and started to kiss me. After my immediate, startled reaction, I decided to just go with it. I remember feeling the water from our wet hair sliding down our faces as our lips and tongues clumsily tried to find a place that didn't feel awkward. We pulled away, both quickly looking away from each other and into the water where our legs looked like they were dancing with the waves. This caused me to giggle and just as I was about to share this with Shawn, he rapidly removed himself from the water mutter, ''Uh, I've gotta get home.'' I got up to follow and hand him a towel, but he beat me to it. I stopped and watched him leave the gated pool area and head toward the house. He turned to wave before he entered the sliding glass door. My heart felt as if it had enlarged four times it's size. All of the sudden this boy I had next to no romantic feelings for, became my first crush victim. I had had crushes before, but those were mostly unattainable like celebrities, but this was real. And he had kissed ME! He must have loved me too. I became wrapped in this bubble of bliss like I had never known. I was smiling brighter, it was like when Dorothy came to Oz and everything was in Technicolor. I thought of nothing but Shawn and that kiss. I wondered when it would happen again, and did this mean we were officially a couple? I tried to call him later that night to ask him those very questions. But, I got his machine. He was one of those lucky kids who got their own phone line, so I could only trust his machine had recorded all the messages I left. I wouldn't know, he never called back. When I saw him a couple of weeks later at a friend's birthday party, he made no mention of it, and to my surprise, now had a girlfriend. He was holding hands with this girl named Robin, who had big crimped hair pulled back into a banana clip and a dark blue suede fringe jacket and her Converse weren't fake. Mine were. And my hair was a mess of frizz no hair product could tame. And she was thin. Her stretch pants actually had some give, where as the seams of mine were hanging on for dear life. I was the underdog, but this time, I wasn't going to win.

I never did find out why Shawn kissed me that late summer day. He and I did finally start hanging out again, but it was never quite the same. I still had lingering feelings which caused things to be strained and I was 14 and had no idea how to process all that. And that was my first kiss, but it's obviously not the best kiss. That would go to a guy called Chris.

Many years and crushes later, I became fixated on a guy called Chris. And boy did he put up a fight. He did not want to be in a relationship with me, but being 19 and completely irrational, I had no intention of taking no for an answer. He'd made it very clear that he only wanted to be friends, and I acknowledged his request without having any intention of honoring it. I figured I would just bide my time, and he would come around. This was not based on past experience. I was usually on the sad end of unrequited crushes. My past is lousy boys and men I have pursued. But, something about Chris made me think there might be something there. This time, I was right.

We had been out on what he'd repeatedly stressed was, ''not a date'', to see a friend's band play. I obliged, even not flipping out when I saw him so obviously flirting with another girl. I just had a silent come apart on the inside. He was having a hell of a time. Dancing and singing and chatting with damn near everyone at the bar. This was unusual, as Chris was normally a very reserved person, but after several shots and about five beers, he was the life of the party. He'd made me promise to make him leave at a decent time, as he had to get up early, so about ten I tried to pull him away from the best night of his life. He begged like a stubborn child which I found amusing, endearing, and completely annoying all at the same time. ''Just one more song.'' he pleaded, hands together as if he were praying I would relent. It took me pulling the whole, ''Fine, I'll leave you hear.'' threat, three times, before he finally agreed to follow me out the door.

Once we made it into brisk, winter, night air he was talking loudly, partly from temporary loss of hearing due to the very loud music and also because very drunk and unaware of volume controls. I kept trying to ''Shush'' him, which for some reason he took as a front and got defensive like he had a right to say whatever the hell he wanted and the world was just gonna have to listen, thank you very much. He was becoming less attractive as I had to lift his legs into the car and buckle him in. The ride to his place was thankfully short as he'd begun running his hands through my hair and twirling the curls. This was very distracting as my body was responding favorably and making it very hard to fight the urge to pull the car over and have my way with him. We made it to his place, and I pulled the car into place, leaned over to unbuckle him when he grabbed my face with both hands and started kissing me. And this wasn't just a ''Hey, let's try it out and see what happens.'' this was a full on, entire body is in on it, kiss. I felt my entire body ignite. Everything in me was screaming, ''YES!! Finally!! I knew it would happen!!'' His hands were running through my hair, to my shoulders to my breast, to my stomach, to my thighs. My hands were also doing their part to explore his body as well. It felt like the Earth was actually moving. Wait...

Now, let me explain, the parking lot for Chris's apartments, were on a very large hill, behind the apartment building. Now this parking lot had a ledge that went down to the ground floor apartments. Which, luckily for them, was right before I'd realized the car had in fact, been moving. No our love was not strong enough to move mountains. I slammed on the breaks and threw the car in park. What I should have done in the first place. I remember parking, and my foot was still on the break, but when he kissed me, all reason went out the window. I didn't want to put the car in park, because that would have taken my hands off his chest, and taken us out of the moment, and I did not want to risk him stopping. Then, I got way too into it, and forgot to keep my foot on the break. Our little brush with maybe death, but if not then definitely severe property damage, kind of killed the moment. And that was that. He got out of the car, came over to my side to say goodnight, and threw up all over the drivers side door.

I wanna say I didn't date that guy for over a year, but I did. It wasn't so bad. He wasn't a bad guy. We just weren't for each other. I should have listened to him in the first place. But, it started out with a great kiss.

Here it comes, a better version of me...

I'll try and make this quick, brevity is not my strength. I tend to follow tangents and ramble, but I'm going to try my best to get to the point.

2014. A new year. A blank canvass. 365 days, each and every single one given to me with the purpose of making something fantastic. I've been given 40 of these. Each one I've wasted. I've let things distract me from the path I am supposed to be on. Exactly what that path is, I have no idea. 2014 is all about figuring that out.

I've had so many false starts, and I've gotten excited about things, but never saw them through. I have a lot of obstacles. Some are as big as mountains. Some can be kicked out of the way, my problem is seeing the difference between the two. I'm sure it's happened to you, something you have been dreading, turns out not to be nearly as bad as you'd built it up in your head. That is how my brain normally functions.

In 2013, I was told by yet another doctor, I am what they call bipolar type 2. Basically, I have the severe depression without as many instances of mania. Sometimes I wish I were more manic. I get things accomplished when I'm manic. Of course, once the wave of depression comes back, I'm right back to square one. It's very frustrating, not just for me, but for those who actually care about me.

The bipolar and anxiety are the reasons for a lot of the frustrating things I do. I have little to no self-motivation. Just opening my eyes is sometimes all the effort I can muster. I could leave the house to take a walk, get some fresh air, but what if something happens when I'm gone? I'm safe in bed. Under the covers. Where nothing happens. Nothing. Happens. No good. No bad. Just nothing.

And since I lost my job in September, this has become my life. I'm not living. I want to live. But, living scares me. Living takes work. Living means fighting.

I do not want this to continue to be the case. Somehow, I'm going to need to really dig deep and find some inner strength and really punch this bipolar madness in the face. Imagine me, a fallen warrior, bloodied and battered and worse for the wear. Broken and tortured, my demons gleefully celebrating their victory in keeping me down. But, just when you think I'm about to draw my last breath, I stand up on my shaky legs, and scream my battle cry, wield my swords and start actually fighting back. For the first time. They will not get the best of me. Not any more.

And there are so many battles I've yet to fight. This year, will be about winning the war.

I'm telling you this, because I want you all to know, I'm not giving up. I need you all there. But, I must warn you. This is a fight I must fight alone. You cannot fight for me. You cannot even fight with me. I just need you to know I'm fighting. And I need you to be rooting for me.

One of my promises to myself is to start writing again, and part of that will be a chronicle of my struggles. Some of you will suggest it's all for attention, and you may be right, but why does that have to be a bad thing? I don't want your pity and I'm not trying to shock anyone. I just need you to know what I'm going through, so that maybe you'll understand. And if you don't totally understand, maybe you can relate. Perhaps, it can also help someone else, fighting their own battle. Because, I think in some ways, we are all fighting.

So, I wish you all a happy new year.

Let's all demand what we want.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fgasDM5090

OK, so here's the thing...

I am very ashamed of myself.

I have no self-control.

But, you see, Davy Jones died, and I had to talk to someone and all the people who would care, were on Facebook. It's not a good excuse. I admit. And, I'm not blaming Davy. The timing of his sudden death wasn't his fault and I'm sure if he'd been given a choice, would have delayed his passing at all costs.

So, I signed back in. As I explained before, it was so easy there was hardly a point in deactivating in the first place. Sitting alone at the Gosport bus station, I put in my e mail address and password, within seconds I was back. Almost as fast, I received an e mail welcoming my return. The intention was to log on quickly, contact those fellow Monkees fans, who I knew would be joining me in shock and sadness, then vanish again before too many people noticed. It didn't quite happen as planned.

I could deactivate again, but really, what's the point when all you have to do is snap your fingers and go right back to where you were? It's just silly.

But, I didn't come here to talk about Facebook. I want to talk about Davy Jones and why his death sideswiped my life knocking me completely off course for a moment. I know, I didn't know him personally, as many will be quick to point out. But, that still doesn't lessen the effect he Michael, Micky and Peter had on my life.

The year was 1985. I was 11. Chubby, frizzy-haired book worm who as you can imagine, wasn't the most popular kid in class. Summers were spent in lonesome roaming around an empty house. My dad and step-mom at work, my younger brother at daycare, being that I was considered too young to look after both of us. I was always left a list of chores I would put a half-assed effort into, before turning on the television and zoning in to whatever nonsense Nickelodeon had to offer. (Turkey TV anyone? You Can't Do That on Television? More on those at another time) It was easy to pass several hours, before I'd hear the familiar sound of the keys unlocking the door, meaning the parents were home and I could look forward to being yelled at regarding the chores I didn't do properly or at all. That was the whole of my life. Then one day, something magical happened.

The moment is so significant, I can even tell you it was on a Monday. Around 9ish in the morning. I turned on the TV, and there were some people I'd never seen before. The show looked old, which didn't matter so much to me as I grew up watching shows that were popular long before I was even a twinkle in my mother's eye. ''My Three Sons''. ''Donna Reed'', ''The Little Rascles'', to name a few. Before my mother died, she made sure I was exposed to these shows and thanks to Ted Turner, I was given every opportunity to enjoy them. Little did I know, she was grooming me to become a pop culture spewing machine, as were she and her sister, Melissa.

Only a few minutes into the show, I was in love. I still remember the first episode I saw. It was ''Monkees in a Ghost Town'' The one where the Monkeemobile breaks down and they are chased around by mobster and locked up waiting for The Big Man. And Lon Chaney was a guest star. It was zany and madcap fun. Just what every 11 year old wants in a half hour television program. I was hooked. The Monkees were now appointment viewing. I woke up every morning just in time to watch and swoon over one Mr. Davy Jones. No one could work a tambourine like he did. I was well aware the show was actually produced 20 years before I'd discovered it, but to me it was brand new and he was so dreamy. And British. I had a thing for the accent, what can I say. Still do. He was defined it terms of ''The cute one'' The pretty face. Micky was the quick-witted, Michael the moody sarcastic, Peter, of course, the fool. And it worked brilliantly. I would excitedly tell my dad all about the ''new show'' I'd discovered. He was polite at first when he explained it wasn't new at all, and then became just downright annoyed when I would go on and on, saying, ''I saw the show when it was originally on. Been there. Done that.'' He wasn't keen to relive his childhood vicariously through me.

I begged for greatest hits cassettes and played them non stop. While other kids my age were loving Madonna and Bon Jovi, I was going in reverse. That's not to say I didn't enjoy modern music. I was what you would call back then a ''Duranie'', meaning I was a fan of Duran Duran. But, so did a lot of other boys and girls. When school started again, I was the only one who had ''I heart The Monkees'' written in black ink on my binder. The Monkees were mine and mine alone. Kind of like a secret hiding place. When my world would become too much for me to handle, I had them as an escape. Then, the resurgence of ''Monkee Mania'' hit again. Suddenly, my secret was exposed. They were in magazines again. Touring, giving interviews, (minus Michael) television appearances. (Anyone else remember Davy Jones on ''My Two Dads''?) I wanted to scream at all the girls in my school, ''I found them first!'' But, I hadn't. Not really. Not even close.

Over the years, I learned the truth about my beloved band/TV show. They were a carefully created fabrication from the mind of Don Kirshner. (also responsible for The Archies ''Sugar Sugar'') Only two of them actually played instruments (Michael and Peter) Micky and Davy were actors hired to look like they knew what they were doing. I soon learned of the turmoil behind the scenes. The four of them actually wanted to have a little bit of say so in the creative direction of the show and music to which Kirshner was firmly against. He basically instructed them to act as his puppets. One of my favorite stories involves Michael Nesmith punching a wall next to Don and then telling him, ''Next time that will be your fucking face.'' I was shocked, this was not the mild-mannered, wool-hat wearing character from the show. But, I guess that was the whole point as to why he was unhappy. Peter wasn't really a fool. Actually, he was very smart and an accomplished guitarist and folk singer. But, learning all about how much they didn't want to just grin and bear it, also tainted my unrelenting love for what they created. Like when I found out how much David Cassidey HATED playing Keith Partridge and went to extreme measures to be released of his contract. Because, you see, I loved The Partridge Family, (still do) and now I felt really bad for it. It's like when someone gives you the graphic details of a particularly gruesome surgery. You're glad it happened, but you really didn't need to know all about it, and now that's all you think about. Not the good that came out of it, but the horror of how it happened.

One thing has never changed. My love for The Monkees. To me, they were a real band. So, they didn't write all their songs or play all the instruments all the time. Their heart was in the right place and that's what meant so much to me. And as time wore on, my tastes changed and Micky became my stand out favorite. I can't explain how it happened, but his songs are the ones I played the most. He was more jazzy and soulful. I dig that. Davy was the showtunes kind of guy. Not that he wasn't revolutionary in his own way. His dance was so awesome, Axl Rose made a career of doing an imitation, (whether he meant to or not, I don't know).

When I heard Davy Jones had died, somewhere inside, that 11 year old's heart broke. He'd been a part of my life, without knowing, for so many years, it's hard to imagine a world were he no longer exists. I hope he knows how much he meant to several generations of kids who sat, glued to their TVs following the antics of four fabulous guys. And now, he's in that special place of heaven where all the great entertainers go, and it's a non-stop, good time, gig. At least that's what I would like to believe. Somewhere, Davy Jones is still giving his adorable smile. Somewhere, Davy Jones lives forever.

Hello, it's me again...

Sigh. Nearly a week since I've deactivated. So far, it's been strange. When I see an article online I would like to share or discuss, I have to keep it to myself. No longer can I hit that little blue ''f'' and post it to me wall for all to see. When I'm watching videos on YouTube, same thing. It's all for me and me alone. I can tell people who I regularly see face to face or have some other means of contact, which is good because it encourages actual conversations. I'm missing out on things, I know. Important things are happening in my friend's lives, and I'm none the wiser unless they make the effort to let me know.

At first, the break was liberating. I was no longer obligated to sign in. I had time to anything I wanted. Which, turns out to be, not a whole hell of a lot. I work. I come home, still turning on the computer, but now it's seemed to have lost it's purpose. I forgot how to use the internet without facebook somewhere, lurking in the background. Always beckoning me to, come reason through thousands of statuses, read dozens of articles and posts. Play games. Watch videos. I have to actually go looking for things to amuse myself. I was hoping the time I was saving, could be spent writing, but I've been at work a lot this week, which leads to a lack of creative brain functioning. But, hopefully soon.

As for any news in my life. Nothing significant to report. The Oscar's are tonight. You'll be watching. I'll be sleeping. I'm rooting for George Clooney. I saw the Descendants. His was a performance worthy of an award. I'm not just biased, I promise. Had they recognized Ryan Gosling, which is a crime he was nominated for nothing, considering his performances in ''Drive'', ''Crazy, Stupid, Love'' and ''The Ides of March'', were some of the best I'd seen in years, I'd have a serious delima on my hands. But, again. Not biased.

Also, I've made an appointment for Rizzo to be ''fixed'' It's a routine operation. I'll have her back at the end of the day. She's going to be fine. These are all things I'm being told and keep repeating to myself. Doesn't stop me from being a nervous wreck. March 5th I have to take my baby in. Prayers and good thoughts are encouraged. Mostly for me.

Do I miss facebook? Yes. But mostly the people. The feeling of being constantly connected to several hundred individual lives all at one time. It's actually kind of lonely, but I think that's what's wrong with it as a whole. People use it to replace actual contact. Why should you call or write someone when you already know everything going on with them? Why should you hang out when that not only involves getting dressed and leaving the house, but also, you can just post something on their wall? It's not quite to the extreme where people are eliminating all contact, but we aren't heading in a good direction guys.

Do I want to come back. Yes. And, no. At this very moment, I'm so tempted just to say, ''To heck with it.'' and come running back. But, there is a huge part of me that wants to see this through. Mainly, to prove to myself, I.can.quit.at.any.time. As Lesley Gore once said, ''You don't own me.''I'm hoping I'll come back, like seeing an old lover again, after you've gone on with your life. No one expected you would. Everyone said you wouldn't make it after the break-up. But now, you can see that person and not feel the compulsion to throw yourselves at their feet and beg them to take you back. Calling and leaving hysteric voice mails. Pleas of how, ''things will be different this time'' Drive by their house late at night to see what they're doing and who they're with. No, this time, it will be on my terms. I've moved on. I am my own person. I can take or leave you. Facebook, that is.

But, if I being honest. It is a little lonely without it.

I hope you are all enjoying your lives and everyone is happy and taken care of! I hope to hear from some of you soon! Let me know how you are.

Just have a listen...