My name is Amygdala. I am told that I came into the world with a full
	head of hair and almond eyes that stared at people with patience. I
	have always been cursed with a raw and vulnerable heart. When I fell
	down as a child I cried longer and harder than any other children in
	the schoolyard. And if I was teased and taunted by classmates I would
	hide in a closet and pretend to die of a crushed ego.
	
	Due to my fragility my family found it best to build our house on top
	of stilts so that no one could disturb the quiet we liked to settle
	into. It was here that I learned it was possible to befriend birds if
	I listened patiently and kindly to their tales of travel. To go to
	school each morning I would lift my ballooning skirts to my side and
	sail down on the wind. All the other children laughed and called me
	'balloon girl,' but I believed I was special and clever.
	
	Today, I am twenty-five. At points I curl up on the linoleum floor and
	have raging emotional tantrums. And I grapple with everything. I
	wander through graveyards finding peace in endings. But often I slip
	on the wet gravestones and have to go home to wash off the mud and
	grass stains. Now that I live on my own and have climbed down from the
	house on stilts I am finding it difficult to navigate this life of
	working and dating. I pull snakes out of my spine to ask them to grant
	me wishes -- to make me popular and rich. They always reprimand me and
	giggle when I cry at their harsh words. Snakes are magical but often
	mean.
	
		

	On the edge of a night lake you once told me how the thought of aliens
	left you lying awake in your bed.
	
	"Really," I said.
	
	"Yes, I believe they are amongst us."
	
	"That's crazy."
	
	"I know but since I was a kid I always thought they were going to come
	steal me away."
	
	"Yeah, but why do you think they would come after you. And not the
	president or something?"
	
	You choose at this point to turn your head towards me slowly and you
	catch sight of my held-down giggle.
	
	"Fear isn't logical, ya know."
	
	"Right," I agree, "I happen to be deathly afraid of ghosts myself."
	
	I start to wonder, sitting here with a box of white frosted cake and
	helium balloons, if what I am doing is right. Maybe I should leave you
	a confession note instead. One you can swallow slowly as the anger
	spreads slowly across your limbs. Hiding in the dark and leaping at
	you with secrets seems to be too weighted with drama. I start to write
	on the envelope of your card holding it against the shaft of light
	under the door.
	
	'Dear Sweetheart, Remember once I told you I was afraid of ghosts?
	Well, a few spirits have visited me over the years. One peering at me
	from a third floor bedroom window, her face was ancient and searching.
	Another, was all wispy white skirts and unfulfilled dreams. Why am I
	telling you this? You may think I am crazy. But fears and
	hallucinations can be powerful, and they can drive you to do things
	you would never imagine. Never...'