Post by Mags on Feb 4, 2011 22:44:32 GMT -5
I never really got why the main character in a book had no life. They either started out with one, or then lost it due to one reason or another. There are books about nerdy kids, who rise to the occasion, normal kids who do extra ordinary things, and a popular kid who screw up their life up by something happening to them, something dramatic, inhuman, and amazing even. Is there no in between? Turn a fictional life into a biography. Like my life. It turned into a book, something only Authors dream about. There’s nothing amazing about me. But there is something amazing about what I’ve been through.
I wake up. I’m in my bed, and I’ve somehow flipped on my back during the night. The ceiling has a rough edge to it, something I’ve noticed before, but never taken much cared about starring at, or getting lost, finding secret images in its rough pattern. Today is no different. The same four walls surround me that have surrounded me for the last 13 years of my life, a life that I was losing sight of. It’s a Saturday, and I’m still having a hangover from a week full of school work. The school board seriously looked over the ‘it’s never good to have too much of one thing’ motto.
I’m in the same clothes I was in yesterday, though minor things have changed.
I kicked my socks off in my sleep, which would explain why I felt something missing. But like everything, I over look it, and lost interest. It didn’t matter. Why should it matter? I squirmed in my bed, debating if I wanted to stay in my warm bed, or get up. The phone rang twice, though it didn’t have a chance to ring a third. My family members are phone answering marines. I close my eyes; a fairly small smirk perched on my pale, pimpled adolescent face. My distant family members are phone calling marines, and the time that they call in the morning, is the start of the day. I do notice that. But something odd happens. Something inhuman, something never recorded in all of time. It’s for me. My mom calls my name, drowning it out, forcing it to be nearly at the top of her lungs. Her life must revolve around annoying me, but I suppose all Mothers are like that. Move is not in my vocabulary. Fast, quickly, and go, have seemingly been absent from it as well.
Yes, I have been told these words, and yes I know what they mean. I hear them, but I don’t listen. My name is called a seconded time; believe it or not she is louder. Not angry, perhaps she just came closer to my room. My Mother reminds me of an obsessive house wife. One sock on the floor made your room filthy, and made you a complete slob. I have a faint memory of drawing on our white, dining room walls. My memory is only faint, but after that childish action, Mother became much like a home movie, she could recall some of the most peculiar things, sometimes at random. God forbid I forget how two years ago I left my plate on the table and didn’t notice that nobody picked it up till dinner the next night.
Oh well, better not keep Mommy Dearest waiting. I get up, shoulders slumped over, and a major case of a head ach.
God, don’t you just hate it when you get up to fast? Mom’s at the end of the stairs, holding the phone for to come and get. Great, she’s going to make me walk down stairs. Lady’s and Gentlemen, this is one small step for man, and one big step for mankind. Aw screw it! I move a bit to the right, and sling my left leg over the banister that aligns the right side of the staircase. If I cared enough to look back, I would see my Mothers face screwing up in angry terrified rage. Like I said, house wife work has become one of her hobbies. Sadly, so is screaming her head off at us kids. Oh no, not just me, she’s turned into a pre-mature old man who yells for kids to get off his lawn, and the obsessive Dad who hides behind the bushes during Halloween to ward of an 6 feet tall so called ‘kids’.
Though she’ll never admit it, she’s got OCD. To translate, it stands for obsessive compulsive disorder.
Kind of like she has a tiny voice in her head that’s all ways telling her how imperfect everything is, and how it must be perfect or her whole life will crumble. It’s a little too late to tell her that, OCD has torn my family apart. My Mom screamed at my Dad for not putting his shoes in the space she’d assigned him. She’d lectured him for not leaving the bathroom towels hung out to dry, and she’d nearly exploded when he didn’t do the dishes on his night’s turn. Dad left a few years after that. Don’t tell mom though, she still thinks he’s working late.
With all the crap in my life, I find small pleasures, though it’s rare it last’s long. I used to like to draw; I wanted to be a book illustrator. Then, I figured out that drawing took too long, and my attention span was a freaking lunatic, so, that was the end of that. Then, I wanted to be a singer, I used to lay in bed with my mom and watch American Idol. Then, after I heard myself on a video of myself, you couldn’t pay me to sing a song. The last thing I thought I wanted to be was a designer. Sadly, the stupid needle pricked my finger for the last time, and I threw the towel in on that as well. And, due to all my life’s experience, I have concluded one thing, and one thing alone. The world is a hateful place, it can suck it, and it can suck it hard. Or maybe it’s my fault that my life sucks, but, to keep the little bit of sanity I have left, I plan on sticking to the fact that there is some sort of magical inhuman force that one day said : And this girls life will be horrible, and she will be miserable! Yes. That’s what happened, indeed it is.
I slide off the banister onto the other side of the stair case, my face sober, and desensitized. With all the horrors I put up with, it’s become my normal face structure. Mom takes a few uneasy breaths. Sorry if it seems like I’m some kind of gothic girl who goes around saying “Oh woe is me, boohoo, my life sucks…” I’m just setting everything up. So, hang in there, won’t be long before your throwing this book across the room, and suing me for traumatizing you. “Hear.” My Mom says as she shoves the phone into me. I wince slightly, but held the phone against my chest, and then lift it up to my ear. “Hello….?” I say, my voice groggy, and dull sounding.
I hear snickering in the background, and the other person on the line is trying to conduct themselves from laughing. They fail, and they drop the phone and laugh along with their friends. I would have, should have, yelled something so horribly vulgar into the phone to shut them up. Instead, for the sake that my Mom’s in the room, I roll my eyes and hang up, and rest the phone on the charger. That was seriously NOT worth getting up over. I would go back up stairs, and go back to sleep, but I can’t. In a perfect world maybe... I understand that life is not all ways fun and fair, but nobody said it was cruel. But maybe it’s the people that are cruel, not life. Oh well, I blame both. I get on the floor and lay down, feeling the cold fake wood against my adolescent cheek. Mom cleans this floor like 3 times a day with her OCD, so the only thing I really worry about is that I’ll one day be craving to sniff cleaning products as a drug.
I all most wish school was today, laying around the house just isn’t me.
So, I must do something deadly. I have to call a friend, and her name is Holly-Alice Berry. And God forbid you don’t call her Holly-Alice. Make that mistake and you’ll find yourself staring into a corner. Holly-Alice is like a mini adult, the real adults have sucked all the happy out of her, well most of the time at least. She’s a model student, dose her home work, dose community work, can recite every rule book given to her, and everything else adults try and convince her is good.
Holly-Alice was brought up with strict discipline as well, her Dad is the governor, and her Mom is a judge. Right and wrong was a one way walk way. Her Mom treated her like she was on trial, and her Dad talked in that ‘vote for me again’ kind of voice. Sure, she has and ego, but it’s mentored. Hell, if my Mom tried to do half the stuff Holly-Alice’s parents did, I’d be A: be going to sleep at 7’oclock, and probably be prone to check over my homework 5 times. I think I’ll stick to doing it period. I dial her number and pray I don’t get pulled into another Saturday church service.
I wake up. I’m in my bed, and I’ve somehow flipped on my back during the night. The ceiling has a rough edge to it, something I’ve noticed before, but never taken much cared about starring at, or getting lost, finding secret images in its rough pattern. Today is no different. The same four walls surround me that have surrounded me for the last 13 years of my life, a life that I was losing sight of. It’s a Saturday, and I’m still having a hangover from a week full of school work. The school board seriously looked over the ‘it’s never good to have too much of one thing’ motto.
I’m in the same clothes I was in yesterday, though minor things have changed.
I kicked my socks off in my sleep, which would explain why I felt something missing. But like everything, I over look it, and lost interest. It didn’t matter. Why should it matter? I squirmed in my bed, debating if I wanted to stay in my warm bed, or get up. The phone rang twice, though it didn’t have a chance to ring a third. My family members are phone answering marines. I close my eyes; a fairly small smirk perched on my pale, pimpled adolescent face. My distant family members are phone calling marines, and the time that they call in the morning, is the start of the day. I do notice that. But something odd happens. Something inhuman, something never recorded in all of time. It’s for me. My mom calls my name, drowning it out, forcing it to be nearly at the top of her lungs. Her life must revolve around annoying me, but I suppose all Mothers are like that. Move is not in my vocabulary. Fast, quickly, and go, have seemingly been absent from it as well.
Yes, I have been told these words, and yes I know what they mean. I hear them, but I don’t listen. My name is called a seconded time; believe it or not she is louder. Not angry, perhaps she just came closer to my room. My Mother reminds me of an obsessive house wife. One sock on the floor made your room filthy, and made you a complete slob. I have a faint memory of drawing on our white, dining room walls. My memory is only faint, but after that childish action, Mother became much like a home movie, she could recall some of the most peculiar things, sometimes at random. God forbid I forget how two years ago I left my plate on the table and didn’t notice that nobody picked it up till dinner the next night.
Oh well, better not keep Mommy Dearest waiting. I get up, shoulders slumped over, and a major case of a head ach.
God, don’t you just hate it when you get up to fast? Mom’s at the end of the stairs, holding the phone for to come and get. Great, she’s going to make me walk down stairs. Lady’s and Gentlemen, this is one small step for man, and one big step for mankind. Aw screw it! I move a bit to the right, and sling my left leg over the banister that aligns the right side of the staircase. If I cared enough to look back, I would see my Mothers face screwing up in angry terrified rage. Like I said, house wife work has become one of her hobbies. Sadly, so is screaming her head off at us kids. Oh no, not just me, she’s turned into a pre-mature old man who yells for kids to get off his lawn, and the obsessive Dad who hides behind the bushes during Halloween to ward of an 6 feet tall so called ‘kids’.
Though she’ll never admit it, she’s got OCD. To translate, it stands for obsessive compulsive disorder.
Kind of like she has a tiny voice in her head that’s all ways telling her how imperfect everything is, and how it must be perfect or her whole life will crumble. It’s a little too late to tell her that, OCD has torn my family apart. My Mom screamed at my Dad for not putting his shoes in the space she’d assigned him. She’d lectured him for not leaving the bathroom towels hung out to dry, and she’d nearly exploded when he didn’t do the dishes on his night’s turn. Dad left a few years after that. Don’t tell mom though, she still thinks he’s working late.
With all the crap in my life, I find small pleasures, though it’s rare it last’s long. I used to like to draw; I wanted to be a book illustrator. Then, I figured out that drawing took too long, and my attention span was a freaking lunatic, so, that was the end of that. Then, I wanted to be a singer, I used to lay in bed with my mom and watch American Idol. Then, after I heard myself on a video of myself, you couldn’t pay me to sing a song. The last thing I thought I wanted to be was a designer. Sadly, the stupid needle pricked my finger for the last time, and I threw the towel in on that as well. And, due to all my life’s experience, I have concluded one thing, and one thing alone. The world is a hateful place, it can suck it, and it can suck it hard. Or maybe it’s my fault that my life sucks, but, to keep the little bit of sanity I have left, I plan on sticking to the fact that there is some sort of magical inhuman force that one day said : And this girls life will be horrible, and she will be miserable! Yes. That’s what happened, indeed it is.
I slide off the banister onto the other side of the stair case, my face sober, and desensitized. With all the horrors I put up with, it’s become my normal face structure. Mom takes a few uneasy breaths. Sorry if it seems like I’m some kind of gothic girl who goes around saying “Oh woe is me, boohoo, my life sucks…” I’m just setting everything up. So, hang in there, won’t be long before your throwing this book across the room, and suing me for traumatizing you. “Hear.” My Mom says as she shoves the phone into me. I wince slightly, but held the phone against my chest, and then lift it up to my ear. “Hello….?” I say, my voice groggy, and dull sounding.
I hear snickering in the background, and the other person on the line is trying to conduct themselves from laughing. They fail, and they drop the phone and laugh along with their friends. I would have, should have, yelled something so horribly vulgar into the phone to shut them up. Instead, for the sake that my Mom’s in the room, I roll my eyes and hang up, and rest the phone on the charger. That was seriously NOT worth getting up over. I would go back up stairs, and go back to sleep, but I can’t. In a perfect world maybe... I understand that life is not all ways fun and fair, but nobody said it was cruel. But maybe it’s the people that are cruel, not life. Oh well, I blame both. I get on the floor and lay down, feeling the cold fake wood against my adolescent cheek. Mom cleans this floor like 3 times a day with her OCD, so the only thing I really worry about is that I’ll one day be craving to sniff cleaning products as a drug.
I all most wish school was today, laying around the house just isn’t me.
So, I must do something deadly. I have to call a friend, and her name is Holly-Alice Berry. And God forbid you don’t call her Holly-Alice. Make that mistake and you’ll find yourself staring into a corner. Holly-Alice is like a mini adult, the real adults have sucked all the happy out of her, well most of the time at least. She’s a model student, dose her home work, dose community work, can recite every rule book given to her, and everything else adults try and convince her is good.
Holly-Alice was brought up with strict discipline as well, her Dad is the governor, and her Mom is a judge. Right and wrong was a one way walk way. Her Mom treated her like she was on trial, and her Dad talked in that ‘vote for me again’ kind of voice. Sure, she has and ego, but it’s mentored. Hell, if my Mom tried to do half the stuff Holly-Alice’s parents did, I’d be A: be going to sleep at 7’oclock, and probably be prone to check over my homework 5 times. I think I’ll stick to doing it period. I dial her number and pray I don’t get pulled into another Saturday church service.
