Unbreakable's Open Salon Blog

Seed of the Black Widow - an excerpt

Sun, 21 Mar 2010 10:03:26 -0400

Maggie convinced Mo to drive the rental to Mackey. The bright red Mustang was a bit too memorable should anyone see it at Ewell’s house. They were almost to Mackey and Mo couldn’t hold it any longer. “You watch Law and Order, don’t you?” She tried to keep a straight face, but was failing miserably.

“No, Mo, I do not,” Maggie replied like a cornered rat. “I just happen to know the legal term for the offense we are about to commit. I would think you would take this a little more seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously, I just think it’s cute how you said …” she lowered her voice for effect “… ‘a B & E.’ I guess I just never expected to hear that come out of your mouth.” Mo giggled again just thinking of it.

“Well, I guess that makes us even then, because I never expected to be committing a B & E either,” Maggie said with a note of finality. Subject closed.

Ewell Childs’s Golf Course Road home was set on a large lot facing the northeast end of the Mackey Country Club golf course. All of the homes on the street were stately, with the standoffish air of moneyed people—but none so much as the home of Ewell Childs. The one-story, ranch design, tan brick home seemed to stretch forever when viewed from the street. Mo thought the landscaping was quite overdone—ostentatious was the word that came to mind. The red front door was flanked on both sides by meticulously maintained topiary shrubs that curled to a point just above the porch overhang. The winding sidewalk leading from the three-car driveway to the front porch was lined with boxwood hedges trimmed to about knee height, very square and very even on all sides. A brick planter extended from the front corner of the property to meet the sidewalk at porch level. The planter was filled with various flowering plants, all looking healthy and obviously well cared for by a gardener who must view this home alternately as his worst nightmare and his meal ticket. An ornamental pear tree accompanied a weeping willow in the lawn to complete the picture. The yard made Mo a little dizzy and she absently wondered who had designed this landscape nightmare.

Maggie parked at the farthest corner of the lot from Ewell’s house. She and Mo had decided to take a walk around the block first, just to check things out. As they walked, they saw very little activity (which was good) and heard only a few dogs (another good thing). Ewell’s neighborhood was in the Country Club section near the golf course and most of the occupants were older without young children. Most everyone tended to stay inside the comfort of their air-conditioned or heated homes, depending on the weather.

One more walk around the block for good measure and Mo was satisfied that she and Maggie could sneak into Ewell’s backyard unnoticed. Mo went first, with Maggie acting as the lookout. After a few minutes with no cop cars screeching up to the house and no neighbors coming out to investigate, Maggie joined Mo in the back yard. Fortunately, Ewell’s house had a six-foot tall wooden privacy fence, which served very well to keep prying eyes away. Mo tried the sliding glass door first—locked. She motioned to Maggie to try all the windows on the far side of the sliding glass door while she checked the ones on her side. Mo was checking out the next-to-last window when she heard Maggie give a short, surprised gasp.

“What is it?” Mo tried to keep her voice down, but even at a whisper, it seemed to her to reverberate all over the quiet back yard. Maggie didn’t say anything, just motioned frantically for Mo to come to her side of the yard. Mo hurried over to where Maggie stood, following her gaze to the partially open screenless window before them that extended almost to ground level. They both just stood there staring at it for a few minutes, until finally Mo whispered, “Well, did you try to lift it up any higher?”

Maggie whispered back, “Yes, but it won’t budge. I need you to help me. If we both pull, we can probably get it to move.” Maggie had Mo stand right beside her and together they curled their hands under the window. “Okay, now, on my count of three, pull up as hard as you can.” Maggie waited for Mo to nod her understanding, and then she started to count. “One… two…thr—”

“Wait!” Mo’s voice was an urgent whisper. “What if there’s a burglar alarm?”

“If there’s an alarm, you’d just better hope it’s not a silent one. Because if we go to jail, you’re younger than I am and someone will pick you for their girlfriend before they pick me.”

Mo frowned at the thought and said, “You really do have to stop watching so much Law and Order.”

“I told you I don’t watch that show. I’m far too busy doing other, more productive things than to sit around watching television!”

“Sure. Whatever.” They knelt, leaned forward and gripped the underside of the window again.

Maggie straightened up from her kneeling position and put both hands on her hips. Mo’s hands were still curled under the window. “What are you doing now, Maggie?”

“Look. Let’s just suppose that I have, on occasion, watched a few episodes of Law and Order. Just for the sake of argument, if I had seen an episode or two, I would assume that where most criminals make their biggest mistake is that they don’t think their plan through all the way to begin with.” Maggie was looking down at Mo, whose neck was hurting from the awkward position of turning to look up at Maggie while still grasping the window.

“So, what’s your point, Maggie?” Mo’s voice was now tinged with irritation.

“My point is, what are we going to do if we open this window and an alarm sounds, or even worse, a silent alarm goes off and we’re in there rifling through Ewell’s stuff when the police show up?”

Mo’s response to Maggie’s perfectly reasonable question was to pull as hard as she could on the window. The window flew up so fast that the top of it banged on the casing, the impact causing Mo to lose her grip on the window and fall, face-forward, halfway into the house. The noise made by the window hitting the casing was loud enough to throw Maggie into a panic. Looking down at the lower half of Mo’s body hanging out of the window, her only thought was to get both herself and Mo out of sight, so she reached down, lifted Mo’s legs and pushed her through the rest of the way. Maggie scrambled in behind her and in a moment of sheer reflex, slammed the window shut and locked it.

Mo was still sprawled on the floor, trying to figure out what had just happened. Suddenly, Maggie flattened herself out beside Mo. “Maggie, what in the world are you doing?”

Maggie’s eyes were as big as saucers. She was practically hyper-ventilating and her head swiveled back and forth, back and forth, surveying the room. She stopped mid-swivel to fix her eyes on Mo’s. “I don’t know what I’m doing! I just panicked! What do we do now?”

“First, I think we get up off the floor,” Mo said, standing up and dusting herself off. She offered a hand to Maggie who was still in a prone position. Maggie’s head swiveled around a couple more times, and then she grabbed Mo’s hand and hauled herself up to a standing position. “At least we know there’s no audible alarm,” Mo smirked, “and we’ll know soon enough if there is a silent alarm, so let’s not waste time. Come on, let’s go.”

Mo strode off toward the front of the house, looking for an office or a bedroom or both. As luck would have it, she found both, directly across from each other at the end of the hallway. Turning to Maggie, she pointed and said, “You check his bedroom, I’m going to start in the office. Look for a briefcase, any loose files, stuff like that.” As Mo turned to enter the office, Maggie didn’t budge. “Go, the police will be here any minute.” Seeing Maggie’s deer-in-the-headlights look, she softened her approach. “I’m kidding about the police. Just go look in the bedroom. The office is on the front of the house, so I’ll listen for any approaching cars. Don’t worry; it will be okay. I doubt he has any kind of alarm. It’s Mackey—who needs an alarm in Mackey? Now, go.”

Reluctantly Maggie walked into Ewell’s bedroom and glanced around, trying to decide where she should start. Maggie had an aversion to invading anyone’s privacy. It stemmed from Lucille’s snooping through her belongings as she was growing up. Although Maggie wasn’t aware of it, Lucille still snooped—every chance she got. She could hear Mo opening and slamming drawers in the office. Apparently, Mo didn’t have the same aversion. She decided to start with the king-sized bed. She knelt down, put her head to the carpet and peered under it.

I need a flashlight, she thought, I can’t see a— “There’s nothing in there at all,” a voice boomed behind her, startling her so badly that she bumped her head on the bed railing as she tried to scramble under the bed and stand up simultaneously. “Maggie, it’s me.” Mo’s voice finally registered in her brain.

Maggie’s heart was pounding so hard, she thought she might pass out. When she caught her breath enough to stand up completely, there stood Mo, laughing so hard she was almost bent double. “Maureen Clendenon, you scared me half to death!” Maggie rubbed her head where she had banged it on the bed frame. “It’s not funny. Stop laughing! I could have had a heart attack or something.”

Mo could barely speak. She sputtered, “You should have seen yoursel—” The distinct sound of the garage door opening snatched the words and the laughter out of Mo’s mouth. She frantically looked around the room, searching for a hiding place. Grabbing Maggie by the arm, she dragged her into the closet, which had sliding mirrored doors and took up almost the entire length of one wall. Mo pressed herself back into the clothes hanging behind her, then noticed that Maggie wasn’t moving. She grabbed her arm again and pulled her back into the clothes with her.

They listened as someone opened a door, then closed it. They heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, closer … closer … The bed creaked with the weight of someone sitting on it. Mo and Maggie were frozen with fear inside the closet. There was just enough light snaking around the two sliding closet doors to make them visible to each other. Mo looked over at Maggie and was surprised to see that Maggie had covered her eyes with her hands. She thought, The poor thing probably thinks that if she can’t see, she can’t be seen. She was also visibly trembling. Mo felt that the pounding of her own heart must surely be loud enough to be heard by whoever was sitting on the bed just a few feet away from where they were hiding.

CLICK. Mo identified the sound as the opening of a cell phone. Maggie spread her fingers to peek through them, but she kept her hands on her face. The sound of keys being punched on the cell phone, then Ewell’s voice filled the room. “Hey, Babe. It’s me.” Maggie let her hands slide down off her face, no longer concerned with covering her eyes as she inclined her ear toward the door to hear what Ewell was saying. She turned to Mo and mouthed, Babe? Mo shrugged her shoulders and went back to concentrating on listening to Ewell.

“No, I’m at home. I came by to grab a change of clothes.” Maggie whipped her head around to face Mo, who looked as terrified as Maggie felt. “The maid must have just left. This place reeks of perfume.” Maggie shot Mo the eyebrow as Mo made a mental note; no perfume for break-ins. Mo carefully began inching her way farther back into the closet, pulling Maggie with her as she tried to hide both of them behind the clothes. She prayed that the clothes Ewell had come for were not in the closet. As she shuffled backward as quietly as possible, her leg brushed against something hard and she felt it begin to topple. Her hand shot down reflexively to steady the object. What the heck? Ewell’s voice distracted her from the object beneath her hand. “Okay, sure, Babe, I’m leaving for Midland now. I have some business to take care of before you get there. When will you be able to get away? … Okay, I’ll be waiting for you… Yeah, same place as last time. Call me when you’re on your way and I’ll give you the room number. Me too. Come on, Diane, you know I do. Okay, okay, love you too. Happy? All right, see you soon.” CLICK.

The bed creaked again as Ewell stood. His footsteps approached the closet. Maggie found Mo’s hand in the semi-darkness and clamped onto it. The closet door scraped along the track as Ewell pushed it open. By this time Mo’s eyes were squeezed shut also; but she could still tell that the open door had allowed light to flood into the closet. Maggie held Mo’s hand in a vise grip—so hard that the ends of her fingers had gone numb. Every muscle in Mo’s body tensed as she waited … but something was wrong. She heard movement and sensed the tension of the rod as hangers slid across it, but it wasn’t in front of her. It was off to the side. She barely opened one eye and saw through the veil of her eyelashes that the door in front of them was still closed. Carefully, slowly, she moved her head to the left where her field of vision took in a partial view of the bedroom. He had opened the other door! She watched, hoped and prayed as Ewell pulled several pieces of clothing off the hangers and slid the door shut.

Enveloped again in semi-darkness, Mo held her breath, praying there was nothing Ewell needed in the other end of the closet. She heard a drawer open, then close, followed by footsteps receding down the hall. The same door that had heralded Ewell’s arrival a few minutes earlier now creaked open and snapped shut as he left the house. The sound of an engine rumbling to life in the garage coincided with a violent expulsion of breath as Mo suddenly realized she had been holding her breath since Ewell closed the closet door. Neither she nor Maggie moved until they heard the sound of the garage door rolling down.

“Is he gone?” Maggie whimpered. Mo shook her hand loose from the death grip Maggie had on it. She massaged her fingers to get the blood circulating in them again.

“Yes, he’s gone. Let’s get out of here,” Mo said as she reached to push the door open for their escape from the closet. She started to take a step, but something bumped against her leg again. She knelt down, searching with her hand for the mystery object. This time when she made contact with it, she knew exactly what it was. Newell’s laptop case. She felt along the top, found the handle and pulled the case up with her as she stood. Stepping forward, she got entangled in some clothing. She tried to free herself, but as she did, something snagged her hair. “Maggie, help me. I’m stuck.”

First, Mo handed the briefcase to Maggie and said, “Newell’s laptop case.” Maggie’s eyes widened, then she set the briefcase on the floor and reached for the clothing tag that had tangled in Mo’s hair. Mo reached up at the same time, catching a corner of the tag as her hand closed over Maggie’s. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as both Maggie and Mo tugged on the tag and it loosened its grip on Mo’s hair. Mo let go of Maggie’s hand and the tag as she stepped out of the closet, but Maggie didn’t let go. Seeing the look on Maggie’s face, Mo’s eyes traced a path down her arm to the Dillard’s tag still clasped in Maggie’s hand. Newell’s London Fog raincoat. “Oh my God, Maggie,” she whispered, as her eyes filled with tears.

“Get the coat. I’ve got the laptop case. Let’s get out of here. Now!” Maggie seemed to have recovered her composure as she spat out orders. As if in a fog, Mo reached in the closet and retrieved Newell’s raincoat. She hugged it close to her as they made their way down the hall to the back of the house. Robotically, Mo headed for the same window where they had come in. She bent to open it, but Maggie put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “The door. Let’s go out the door.”

Maggie led the way out of the house and through the back yard. She gingerly pushed open the gate, peeked around it, saw no one and motioned for Mo to follow her. As they began walking down the sidewalk toward the car, Maggie glanced at Mo only to discover that she was still hugging the coat to her body. “Mo, stop it. Drape that coat over your arm. You’ll attract attention for sure holding it like that.” Mo did as she was told and within a few minutes they were safely inside Mo’s rental, speeding away from Ewell, from his house, from Mackey.

I Thought We Were Here to Write

Sat, 20 Mar 2010 15:03:47 -0400

For weeks now, I've read post after post about the "decline of OS," how it once was a writer's site and now it isn't, one venomous post after another. This posting frenzy (and subsequent personal attacks on bloggers, both experienced and inexperienced) has been quickly and steadily followed by a mass exodus of some of the finest writing talent that OS had to offer. I can't really blame them for leaving, the contention level has been steadily rising for quite some time and there is only so much of it one can take and still attempt to write seriously.

What have we accomplished with all this finger-pointing and belittling except to damage the integrity of the very site we've all, at one time or another, declared our allegiance to? It is difficult, at best, to have any serious desire to write in this hyper-charged atmosphere. I miss the writers who have fled the site. It seems there are a few more each day.

In light of all that, I guess my question is this: Can we not just stop the bitching, moaning and accusing and get back to doing what we're here for? Can we all just WRITE?

Scanner's Open Call: Thank you, Mrs. Hazlewood

Sat, 13 Mar 2010 22:03:52 -0500

If you have eyes that can read fine print; in other words, if you are under forty, you might be able to read my very first ever published short story (emphasis on short) below. Sunny Sam was published in the August, 1968 issue of the now-defunct children's magazine, Golden Magazine for Boys and Girls.

Thank you, Mrs. Hazlewood, my third grade teacher, for taking such an interest in me, for encouraging me by telling me I could be anything I wanted to be (a writer) and for recognizing that the shy little girl who entered your class halfway through the school year needed an extra bit of TLC.

My dad was a welder, which meant that we moved a lot. Simply put, we went where the work was. Until the year I was in third grade, the work was in Amarillo. Then, suddenly it wasn't. My parents loaded up everything we owned into a U-Haul truck, except for my dollhouse, which was left behind, a grievous sin for which I never quite forgave my father. Dad drove the truck, my mother followed in their car, with my brother and I sleeping on a mountain of clothes and blankets and sheets in the back seat, our heads brushing the ceiling every time we moved.

Dad didn't believe in doing anything the easy way, so we drove straight through, arriving in a tiny town on the coast of Texas in the wee hours of the morning. The next day, my brother and I began attending our new school, feeling as if we had been caught up in Dorothy's Wizard of Oz tornado and whisked away to a very strange land.

It was hard being the new kid in school, and going home was never a picnic, either. Most days, we just kept our heads down and tried to be invisible. It didn't take long for my new teacher, Mrs. Hazlewood, to become my port in the storm. She was a kind, gentle woman who freely gave out smiles and encouragement. I loved every minute I spent in her class and remember to this day her curly, fire-engine red hair and fair, freckled skin. I remember her as tall, but that may or may not have been the case, as everyone seemed tall to me at nine-years-old.

Mrs. Hazlewood didn't tell me that she had submitted my story to Golden Magazine until she received word that it would be published. On one of the final days of the school year, she found me in the hallway after lunch and, pressing a letter to my mother into my hands, told me that she had quite a surprise for me. I took the letter home to my mother, as instructed by my beloved Mrs. Hazlewood. My mother was the one who read the letter out loud, giving me the good news.

I could barely wait to get back to school the next day to see Mrs. Hazlewood. I threw my arms around her neck and thanked her over and over. She had me read the story out loud to the class that day. I was beaming with pride, until some little boy who I'm quite sure grew up to be a serial killer, raised his hand and told Mrs. Hazlewood that he had heard that story before. I was crushed.

I began to cry, repeating over and over, "I promise I wrote it," as the serial killer/little boy chanted, "No, you didn't. No you didn't." Mrs. Hazlewood made the serial killer child move his desk in the hall for the rest of the day, but I was convinced everyone had believed him. Mrs. Hazlewood kept me after class that day to explain to me that some people have a hard time being happy when others do something really special and that I shouldn't worry about what that boy said because no one believed him. I walked home halfway convinced she was right and halfway convinced I had somehow done what he accused me of.

I wonder what prison he's in now?

The issue that my story was printed in came out in the summer. This was back in civilized days when school started after Labor Day. I took the magazine with me the first day of school to show it to Mrs. Hazlewood. I wanted to slap that little boy/serial killer upside the head with it, but he had moved away during the summer. Yes! My joy was complete.

In honor of Mrs. Hazlewood, this post is dedicated to all teachers everywhere who magically transform children's lives - the way she transformed mine, for that too short half school year and, unknown to her, even now.

Thank you, Mrs. Hazlewood.

Ahhhhhh....... The magic of technology. Save your eyes!

Writing as Salvation - Torman's Open Call

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 10:03:23 -0500

There is a blogger whose banner tag line reads: searching for peace. I read a post by her a few days ago that moved me so deeply, I am still haunted by it today. This particular piece, Fear of Asking, by Lady Dove, is one you should read, if you haven't already done so. It deserves a much wider audience than it received, as it is absolutely one of the finest pieces of writing I have ever had the honor to read.

It seems so many of us on OS are in that same place of searching for peace. I suspect that place is one that is common not only to us, but that it is part of the human condition and always has been. In fact, I'm sure of it. Yet, as commonplace as that search may be, the individual reasons and the stories behind why we continue to reach for that elusive prize are just as varied and mysterious. There are others whose stories have affected me profoundly; others whom I have cried with, prayed for and worried over.

The mother who is so much braver than I, ...next please, who writes with such gut-wrenching clarity of her son's illness. Why Can't It be Cancer? I want to make it better, want to fix it for her. But, I can't, so I read when she writes and I ache with sadness.

Another brave mother, Gail Walter, wrote of the fragility of life. I sat transfixed, reading, not daring to breathe or move a muscle. I was afraid to keep reading, unable to stop. How Fragile It All Is Indeed.

A father's pain stops me dead in my tracks - too familiar, too close. Jimmymac1025's Unstung is a cold hand around my heart. I feel an affinity with him, we share a dreadful pain.

A long-time friend, Torman, writes of a parent's worst fear. I've prayed along with him, begged God for a reprieve which doesn't come. My heart breaks for him and for his wife. When he writes about a magical moment on his trip home in, A Journey to Normal: Eight Days on the Road, my hope soars with his.

And then there are the posts that allow me to find my own peace within them. I lose myself in the amazing art of Foolish Monkey. Her paintings in Portrait of the Artist as a Crusty Old Dame make my heart sing. Especially the first one - Mimi's Japanese Maple. **SIGH**

My breath catches in my throat when I read Rita Shibr's Chevron, the words achingly familiar, so that I hear my own voice softly proclaiming, oh my God, as tears spring to my eyes.

Mypsyche, whom I feel I've known forever even though we've yet to meet, steals my heart when I read of her son's accident, I Will Hold You, I Will Carry You. I search for hope, wanting desperately to find it for her, every time she writes.

Another dear friend, JD Smith, speaks to the existential angst that, for a great many of us, lurks in the back of the mind. Too Old to Start Over Maybe it isn't about starting over. Maybe it's about mapping a new path with what we have. Don't ask me - I'm still mulling that one over.

Now, to the point of all this. Torman posted an open call recently, calling for posts on the subject of Why Do I Write? Obviously, I can't speak for anyone other than myself. I write because I search for answers--answers that I know exist within me. The only way I find those answers, it seems, is to write about the questions. In doing that, so often the answer appears.

I write; and I read what you write. I search for answers in my own writing and in yours, as well. Many times, after I have read something like one of the heart-piercing compositions mentioned above, I find myself with even more questions--questions that must be answered. And so I write. To find the answers. To find that elusive peace. I write because my brain will explode if I don't. The words I write ease the restless tension within me.

Most importantly, I write to find the 'me' who threatened to disappear, to pull the finer points of who I am back to the surface. Writing changes me. It refines me, defines me and challenges me like nothing else in this world.

I write to be. Nothing more, nothing less.

To Rail Against the Madness

Tue, 9 Mar 2010 07:03:09 -0500

My most recent post was a piece entitled I've Got a New Attitude. I wrote about the virtues of adopting a "happy" attitude, and while most commenters were supportive, I was taken to task in a couple of PMs and I've noticed a few anti-be-happy posts popping up here and there. **In all fairness, the PMs I received were from hurting people who felt my post was diminishing of the extreme difficulties they were encountering in their personal lives. I've been at that place, too, hence my decision to post this today. ** Consequently, I feel compelled to elaborate a bit further in the spirit of full disclosure.

I am not what one might describe as a Pollyanna, tripping along the path, prescribing smiles and joy for all. Quite the contrary, I have a melancholy river that courses through my soul, one that takes me on many an unwanted, white-knuckling, holding-on-for-dear-life trip through the rapids of searing depression which threatens to suck me to the bottom of that wretched river, holding me there until my lungs burst and I become one with the melancholy.

Over the thirty-plus years that I have fought this demon of depression, I have learned a few things. I wish I could say I've won more battles than I've lost, but sadly, that is not the case. My family has the scars to prove it, as do I. We all sport the battle-weary heart of those who fight the good fight against this insidious disease whose name polite society would prefer we dare not speak.

Depression has the ability to turn reality on its head. In true Alice in Wonderland fashion, logic is turned on its head, twisting the truth of any matter into a convoluted coil of nonsense. The frustration of attempting to unravel the knot of distorted half-truths and tangled logic is enormous, especially given the limitations of my seratonin and dopamine-deprived brain.

As I stated earlier, I have learned a few tricks over the years. I know that, although depression is a formidable foe, I still hold a few keys. I can choose to give depression the upper hand; and I do that when I focus on the frustrations of my life. Even with the medications that I take religiously, I can easily throw myself into the dungeon of despair by myopically narrowing my view of my own life to exclude the good parts of it, the things that make me happy. I know that I have a tendency to do that. I am well acquainted with that dungeon; I know every corner, all its nooks and crannies. No, it's not a comfortable place, but it is oh-so-familiar, so familiar, in fact, that making the trip there is almost effortless.

Staying out of that dungeon of despair is another matter entirely. The lure of that dark, shadowy place can be irresistible. During times of great stress or days when my relationships are hurtful, the dungeon draws me. I want to go there and hide, to lock myself away, to numb myself against the pain. The dungeon has seen me at my worst and still it calls to me, holds a place for me, wants me.

And yet... I hold another key. Even on my worst days, I know that I have the option to summon the energy to climb up out of that pit. I can take a brisk walk, do something creative (like rearranging the furniture in a room), have great sex, all activities that push those magical endorphins into action. Laughter truly is good medicine - a good, long laugh or a fit of the giggles triggers the release of endorphins. I view endorphin-releasing activities as the child-gate that keeps me out of the dungeon.

Do I always choose the feel-good endorphins over the myopic-my-life-is-shit dungeon? No, I don't. In fact, I am apt to choose the dark and dreary dream-killing dungeon more often than I care to admit. It's the nature of the disease. But, on the days when my survival instinct is just above passable, I write nonsense like I've Got a New Attitude.

Those are the days when I rail against the madness, when I look the demon square in the eyes and tell it to fuck off. When I proclaim that I've got a new attitude, it's more likely to be a statement of faith than a statement of fact. The way I see it, it's a war, and those faith-filled new attitude days are about winning battles. I've been at this a long time and I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I'm still here and I'm still Unbreakable.