My Serenity key chain broke this morning. I immediately thought, “It’s not an omen.” I’m taking my immediate reaction as one, though. There’s no getting around the omenness of it.

I’ve also spoken with several people about seeing Serenity this coming weekend. We’ll have folks in from out of town for the majority of that time, but what I Friday I have to myself I plan to spend at the theater. In specific, I plan to spend my time at the theater crying. Hell, I haven’t been able to watch the television spots without going into shock—clammy skin, pounding heart, and ten minutes of crying.

I feel like I’m entering more and more of a fugue state the closer the date gets. I can’t really stop to think about it, lest I not be able to sit still or focus on anything from the excitement. And since I can’t think about it, it’s always vaguely in the back of my mind, being not thought about, and I still can’t sit still.

I want someone to talk to about it, but there is really no one. There is no one out there, that I know of, who was as dedicated to Firefly as I was (or thought myself to be) who didn’t see it in one of the preview showings (except, perhaps Pop and I am not confident to be vulnerable at her). The fact that there were probably some asshats who didn’t see it for the first time until six months after the DVD came out, went to Fireflyfans.net and said, “OMG this is so good why was it canceled hey itz my birfday [emoticon] [emoticon] [inane emoticon]?” and still got to see the preview before me makes me want to vomit. I hate to use the word, but that feels unjust. It feels wrong. I wish it to be made up to me. That will never happen, I know.

It’s too big and overwhelming, to go see this movie. It’s too much. It’s too intimate. I care so much that it overwhelms me and I loathe that. I hate that I’ve isolated myself so well and I hate that I’ve preserved all the pain and wonder of it. I hate the fact that I’m so vulnerable to it—seeing Wash on television again makes me feel like I have no skin. I hate the fact that I’m writing about it right now—a canceled television show, for gawdsake, and one of its more minor characters. But it changed my life and I can’t undo that change.

I think I may see it the first time by myself, or maybe I’ll ask Batonga to come with me, if he can handle what I assume will be a nearly schizophrenic package of giddiness and snot from sobbing so hard. I’ve actually scheduled a time to talk to Spark about it, because he said, “We’ll need to talk.” I want to see it over and over again. I want to see it nine times a day every day forever. I want to go with Hemisphere Dancer and a bunch of other people and drive to Atlanta to see it with Pop. I worry, though.

I want to be brave enough to get through it. I want to be strong enough to enjoy something I worked, however little, at making happen. I want to be secure enough to let other people know how I feel, even if how I feel isn’t neat or clean. Like Mal asked of Zoe on a ridge above Serenity Valley, I want to be ready, always.