Fairytale of Detroit

Children are raised on fairy tales and happy endings. This world is the real world, and I cannot begin to understand why people cling so desperately to such trivial fantasies. Conclusions such as “Happily Ever After” don’t happen here. I didn’t ride up here on a white horse; the weight of shining armor is too much for me to bear. Despite my own ego, I know that I am not handsome, and my charm is nothing more than a facade. I’m no hero, so she cannot complain. I’m nothing more than mere mortal; I am only a man. ....

            Black netting flowed out of her hair and covered down to her nose. The short black dress clung like a Chinese finger trap to her every curve, making her pale skin ghostly.  The sun glistened over her skin, her black hair turned almost red in the sun. She was something out of another time, another place. She possessed a queer sort of grace, a raging animal magnetism, and the vulnerability of a child; she was magic and poison.  A plume of smoke rose from her perfect little mouth, but all of these obstacles did not prevent her green serpentine eyes from piercing through my flesh, straight down into my soul. Her stare sent a surge of electricity through the crown of my skull down through the souls of my feet, and straight into the earth.....

.. ..

            “Seems perverse doesn’t it?” She said in almost a whisper. ....

            ....

            “What?” She had caught me off guard.....

.. ..

            “That God would let the sun shine like this today?” she said, staring off into the heavens. ....

            ....

            “Then it would rain every day.”....

.. ..

            Her mouth formed a half pirate smile; “Touché, that it would.” She held out her gloved little hand. Her fingers were so small; they looked like those of a child. “I’m the grieving widow of sorts.” ....

            ....

            “O, that’s you under there. I couldn’t see you with all that shit over your face.”....

.. ..

            “I guess they were right, you are an asshole.”....

.. ..

            “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner. So, dear, what are you doing out here?”....

.. ..

            “Waiting for you,” she said as she grabbed my hand to squeeze it. I expected her little porcelain hand to crumble in mine. I made the mistake of looking into her eyes, and even beneath the mesh obstacle I could see a little glistening tear. It moved down her cheek slowly, into the corner of her mouth where she lapped it up with her tongue, and gave that queer sort of half-smile. I wanted to take her and run, to forget this place, and all these people. I wanted to devour her soul, to take it and make it my own. ....

“Well here I am,” I said stepping back and opening my arms to prove that I was finally in her presence, in the flesh. ....

She turned and started walking towards the doors of the church. Once under the trees her flowing hair returned to its ebony color, and she glanced back slightly to ensure that I was following. She grabbed the large iron handle, but all her might couldn’t make the large wooden doors budge. She stepped aside, and motioned that I give the monstrosity of a door a go. The door moved with very little physical strain and she let out a small whisper of a giggle. We moved through the church, through a cascade of sobs, noses being blown, hands being shaken and held, hugs being exchanged, pats of comfort being offered to the grief-stricken. My eyes were so transfixed by the little body, in the little black dress. I hoped that her movements would thrust the hem just a little bit higher, so I could see just a little more. The sun was glistening through the stained glass windows and the breezes of the trees behind them made the Saints look as if they were shaking their heads in shame and disapproval. There he was at the front of the church, just a little box of ashes and ashes, nothing more than dust. It was more than my mind would allow itself to comprehend. We took our seat on the pew, at the front, by the box. The box stared at me like it knew me better than I knew myself, and perhaps at one time, the contents did. All I could do was look down at her legs. The procession went on and the priest came to speak, but I heard nothing. My mind just wandered up her skirt into her body, imagining that I possessed it in its entire splendor. ....

At the end, we stood in a long line against the back of Ste. Anne’s, and people gave us their hugs and their regards, like it was supposed to cure the world of hurt we’d have to endure for the years to come. Sometimes I wonder if deep down they weren’t thanking their lucky stars it wasn’t their brother there in that box, not their best friend. Bianca stood next to me in line; the electricity that oozed from her pores almost choked the breath from my body, as if it was trying to force our hearts to beat in sync. People’s condolences and tears and hugs seemed so superficial, like a play we’d have to reenact numerous times, over and over through the course of our lives. I could hear their accusations and whispers: why wasn’t I there: why wouldn’t I come home; must be heartless, or maybe I’m a coward. I don’t care what they think; they know nothing about me. ....

“Dear, are ya driving to the wake?” My mother said in a half sob.

            Bianca intervened, “Mrs. Finnegan, I was thinking about just leaving my car and walking, I think a little exercise in the sun might be nice. I’m not really sure about walking to the tavern in Cork Town myself. Do you think you could spare Tomas, so he may escort me?”

            “Of course dear, you take good care of Miss Riley. I’m goin’ to find ya fatha,. See ya at the pub.” My mother kissed us both, and ventured off and took Lafayette towards Cork Town. ....

            She removed the veil from her face, and stared up at me with eyes like a child’s, her eyes sparked like two priceless emeralds in the bright sun. “Sometimes I think your correspondence is the only reason I survived.”

            “Why did you stay"

            She put the veil back over her face as if to hide part of herself. “That’s not a simple question, and I cannot give a simple answer.”

            “We’ve got a little time; we can walk a little slower, but you seem like you’re in such a hurry.” She slowed her pace to equal mine.

            “Like I said, it’s really not that simple. I guess I’ll have my time; two years isn’t a long time for me, considering I’ll live another fifty or sixty,” she lifted up half of her skirt to take her cigarettes and a lighter from her garter. Then lifted up the other half to grab a small flask, took a sip, and handed it to me.

            “Got anything else under there? Jesus, woman! The way you smoke you think you got another fifty or sixty years?”

            She gave me a devilish sort of smile, “It depends on what you’re looking for sir. And perhaps, I do, perhaps I don’t, and I won’t smoke forever. Overall, I don’t think anyone should have to die alone. No matter how much of a bastard they are, no one deserves to die alone.”....

            “To be honest, I’m shocked you came back,” I said, and she looked at me half terrified, half shocked. “So you came back because you felt sorry for him?” I asked.....

            “No, I didn’t feel sorry for him, per say. I’m not sure. I guess I can explain myself as well as you cannot explain yourself for never coming to see him for two years.” She retorted in an almost accusatory tone.

            “You know nothing about me, or my life!”

            “O, so the big strong doctor can dish it out, but can’t take it back? You’re the only one who knows about the breakup; do NOT tell you mother. I’m tired of death and funerals, and I’m not ready to send her to hers. Is it a habit of yours to judge another’s character? Should I judge you for never showing your face except at the wake? What should we all assume about your character?”

            She had struck a chord, and she seemed satisfied that she had wounded my ego, after I had grazed hers. I wanted to rip her to shreds for a moment. I grabbed her arm walked her into the closest alley, and threw her little body up against the wall.

            “You understand this kid,” my finger pointed in her face, “I have my own reasons and I will deal with them myself. They are not your concern.” Blood was surging through our bodies, our animalistic senses were taking over our minds, our breaths were quickened, our senses sharpened.  I pulled that awful netting shit out of her hair and grabbed her face. She didn’t fight me, and I allowed my hands to explore everything I had dreamt about for all this time. It seemed like a moment and eternity. All at once she pushed me off, and picked her cigarettes and lighter, and the damn net thing off the ground, and put herself back together. She grabbed my hips, threw her hand into my pockets and grabbed the flask taking a few large gulps before lighting a cigarette. She breathed the smoke into my face and wiped the lipstick from my mouth, shoved the flask into my chest, and walked away.

            We passed the rest of the time in silence. Eventually we made it to the pub, and my dad pardoned his interruption, and dragged me by the arm to the bathroom. “I don’t know what the hell you think you are doing son, but I saw you two, and you better thank your lucky stars your mother was too busy crying her eyes out to see it. What the hell are you doing? You’ve got a fiancée at home, and we just said our goodbyes to your brother. Bianca is a lovely, but lonely girl, and her head is a hundred kinds of confused. She’s nothing more than a kid. She ain’t got her head together. What are you going to do to that girl? What wrong with you? You’re brother’s girl, and he’s barely been dead a week. Yeah, just walk away son, that’s what you’re good at eh?”

             I walked back towards the bar to find Bianca waiting for me with a drink. The band was playing “Finnegan’s Wake.” I wish my brother would just wake up at the end that it would all be some sort of comical misunderstanding, but those things don’t happen here. People ate, drank, and sang, but it was all more than I could take. So I just kept drinking for the most part, but her intoxication couldn’t hold a candle to any amount of alcohol I consumed.

            “Bianca, I need to talk to you; let’s get out of here. Can you call a cab? I’ll give my cousin your keys and just say we’ve had too much to drink.”

            “Yeah, I’ll go out and call a cab."

            I met her outside, and the cab surprisingly didn’t take long to arrive. So we crawled in. “Motor City Casino,” I said to the driver, and we were off. We passed the trip in silence, with my hand in her hand. My fingers studying the texture, the length of her fingers, the temperature of her skin. We both just sat there in silence, until the ride came to an end. She paid, and I just let her.

            I grabbed her hand as we passed through waves of smoke, old ladies in visors, waves of noise, flashing lights, and fanny packs, until I realized I was basically dragging her. We were already at the elevators. She must have been nervous, and curious, as she began to chew on her nails, and I think I heard her crying a bit, but that damn thing was in her face again so I couldn’t be sure. We got to the room and we sat down.

            “You said you had something to say to me, but I have something to say first. I can’t hold it in anymore. Every day, every e-mail, every text message, every letter they are all I had to live for. You have been the best part of my day, my life for the last two years, and I couldn’t have made it through them without you. You’re my best friend, and I know it sounds so wrong, but I love you.” She said as she sobbed.

 I grabbed her and kissed her face, and took her as I had dreamed of for the past two years. It was even better than I had dreamed, than I had imagined. Her perfect little mouth, her soft pale skin, her smell, her taste; I loved it all. She was everything that I had wanted, that had possessed me over these years. I had loved her charm and her childish vulnerability, but something was lost after that moment. I had taken the light that surrounded her and made her my own, and there was nothing else that I had wanted. I tried to take it again, but it was gone; I already had it. She kissed me and said those three little words, and it took everything in me not to laugh at her, as she fell asleep. I watched her for awhile, as she fell asleep, watched as she changed, watched as her little light went out. As she slept, I gathered my things, and just left. Some day when she’s older, she’ll understand that I am no saint, no savior; I will never ride a white horse. As I walked away, I felt the weight of the burden of the armor she made me wear fade away. Some day she’ll understand. There are no princes and princesses in this world. Some day she’ll understand that after all, I’m just a man. 

Taste In My Mouth

'm not really into writing poetry, I prefer reading it, but we had to write a poem for class on a childhood experience. It is said that memories are caused because they are linked to pain. Guess its why I remember it so well, and I now have thalassophobia.

"The Taste in My Mouth"

Florida,

I have never flown before.

I watch the ground

below as we take off,

The world looked so small,

toy miniatures,

ants.

Watching,

As the plane landed,

The ocean looked so vast,

Sparkling,

 dazzling majestic crystal blue.

It looks like it goes on forever.

Standing,

In awe, knee deep in the water.

Wiggling the grains of sand,

 Awkward tickling

in-between my little appendages.

Splashing,

The waves pulling themselves

 back and forth,

Thrusting from the abyss,

to the shore line

 with a thunderous roar

I anchor my little feet in the sand

I won’t be carried out to sea.

 “Taste”,

My father urged,

“Taste the water”

 everyone watches in anticipation.

I cup my little hands,

holding a minute fraction

of the majestic crystal blue

I gulp it all down.

Choking,

Gasping, coughing,

 salt burning my esophagus

 Face puckering like a raisin

Pride shattered

My stomach is turning, gurgling.

Frozen,

I stand,

Hairs on my body stand up

 Neurons firing

 around my ankles

Sending messages to my brain

I can’t move;

my eyes are too clouded to see

“Shuffle,”

My father says.

“I can’t,

 they’re everywhere.”

He shuffles,

throws me under his arm

I’m parallel with the surface

 I can see;

To the ocean

I am a toy miniature

Ruined,

My first oceanic experience,

The water will forever

be cloudy and gray

Shortness of breath, dizzy,

heart pounding, breathless

Leaving a bad taste in my mouth

“Hate,”

I say, “I hate the ocean.

There are things in there,

and they’re going to eat me.

Do we have to go to Sea World?

 Because I’ve had enough!

Nobody,

 I mean nobody,

 better fuck with Disney World!”

The Beautiful Words

George’s father threw his hands down onto the table, launching his spoon into the vat of gravy. The splatter caused a cast-off spray pattern of all over the faces of Missy Prissy Pre-med and the Archetype Architect. The mother had her head down, buried in her hands, crying into the caldera in her mashed potatoes.

                “You know what happens to English majors?” her father asked rhetorically, “They live poor, and they die poor. You want to live in a cardboard box for the rest of your life? You’re a disappointment to me, and this family. You’re killing your mother; you know she’s a nervous person. Now she’ll be up every night worrying about how you are going to survive!”

                ‘Fretting’, would be a more appropriate word.” George replied icily. Her father continued his ranting and raving in an attempt to drive his agenda into her earlobes in the hopes that they would infiltrate, and eventually infest her gray matter. As his lecture continued he grew redder and redder, and the veins began to pop out of his neck.

                “Dad, you’re veins are popping out of your neck, you’re going to have an aneurism! STOP IT! George, look what you’ve done!” Miss Prissy Pre-med cried out.

                “Actually, those are probably his carotid arteries, and he won’t have an aneurism, he just needs to breathe before he faints.” George said while looking chipped black polish on her finger nails, “Well, this has been another super fun family gathering, but I must go before the villagers come with their pitch forks.”

                “Resistance is futile!” her father said with a cold, determined stare as he watched George put her arms though her jacket. She opened the door, and began to walk out. Right before she was about to shut it she popped in her head and only her head.

                “If it weren’t for writers, that phrase wouldn’t exist.” She shut the door just in time, as she hear the clankity-clank of silverware hitting the door.

                The long drive back to campus forced George to reflect on the twenty three years of her life. From the very beginning she had never lived up to her father’s expectations. For starters, he had all of his hope set on a second son; another architect just like him, just like her brother would be. He desperately wanted to see the golden placard etched, “Mr. George Jacobs & Sons” on his building. However, not even changing George’s diapers was enough to prove to him that he had, in fact, bore another daughter. George’s father didn’t allow her to have pretty things like dolls, dresses, and other things suitable of the female persuasion; George was given blocks and Legos and other things against her feminine nature. The only pleasure she took in building was setting the projects on fire the moment they were completed. The only girly thing she had ever owned was a single porcelain doll her grandmother had given her in secret.

                George walked into her dorm, Connie and Raymond, who where were supposed to be at home with their parents, were making out in the common room of her and Connie’s dorm.

                “GAH!” George exclaimed while covering her eyes, “No making out in the champagne room! Hey wait a minute; aren’t you two supposed to be visiting your parents?”

                “We told them that we were getting married, my mother told me, and I quote, “It is ridiculous of me to even consider marring English major.” Connie said, all in one breath, and then let out a long sigh.

                “My father thought it was great I found a woman who’s ready to be a house wife.” Raymond interjected.

                “It isn’t fair, how could your father say something like that about me, while I’m sitting there?” Connie began to sob, until George chimed in.

                “Well, I am glad your night was just as fabulous as mine, and I’d hate to miss more melodrama, but I am taxed. Let’s go seek sanctuary tomorrow? Please proceed with eating face upon my departure.” George said as she headed towards the fridge.

                “John K. King?” Connie asked.

                “WRONG, all answers must be submitted in the form of a question.”

                “What is John K. King?” Connie and Raymond said in union, while hanging over the back of the couch to watch George.

                “Ding, ding, ding.” George said line a lifeless tone, as she reached for the vodka,” I’m looking for something out of print.”

                “I’ll take potent potables for two hundred.” Raymond said sarcastically.

                “Daily Double!” George exclaimed as she lifted two shot glasses in a cheer, and gulped them down. “I bid adieu, to you, and you, and you.” She said to Connie, Raymond, and the bottle of vodka. Then placed it back in the fridge, and retreated to her room.

                Floors and floors, and rows and rows of books; an eccentric display of creative chaos, to the literary oriented mind this place is heaven on earth. The whole store smelled of paper, ink, and glue, the slow break down and decay over time. Connie had to pop a Claritin in preparation, but George walked up to the shelves nose first into the books to take in the aroma.  George loved the sound of the old wooden floor boards creaking beneath her feet, the sun creeping through the windows, the dust fragments reflecting the light like glitter. Raymond thumbed the spines, and grazed over the covers. A silent awe fell over them, and a blissful peaceful state of being. For about ten whole minutes…

                “I still can’t believe you father said that to me,” Connie blurted out; her faced all contorted like she couldn’t wrap her troubled little mind around the situation.

                “At least you didn’t have to deal with the Wrath of Khan.” George said.

                “Connie, ignore my dad, he’s just ignorant about the professional possibilities por poetic lyricists like you,” Raymond interjected.

                “I like how you had to use French to lengthen your alliteration,” George said while skimming through antique copy of Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities.

                “Thanks,” Raymond said putting his hand against his heart, and beamed with pride.

                “Honestly, you guys, enough is enough,” George said sternly while slamming the book closed and replacing it on the shelf, “I’m going to rebel, and you both are coming with me. I’m going to protest!”

                “Like a real protest? Connie asked.

                “Yeah, that’s perfect, with signs and shouting and stuff. DOWN WITH THE BOMB! VIVE LA FRANCE!” Raymond shouted, and was met by evil glares and shushes. “So how are we going to do this Madame Defarge?”

                George gave Raymond a look, “We’ll we can go to other campuses and post flyers, but why don’t we do a book drive, and collect money for literacy projects. So that way it isn’t just about us. We can get other students who have faced the same emotionally crippling opposition as ourselves. It’s brilliant!” She said as she bestowed kisses on a row of Dickens’ novels. “I love this place. It makes me brilliant!”

                Over the next few weeks the groups coordinated holding the rally on the pavement outside the bookstore. They were busy collaborating with student artists to create flyers, they wrote blogs, created social networking groups, met with city officials, contacted news stations; they decided that everyone should dress up as their favorite authors or characters. They went around to every college campus within the county and posted flyers, and gave presentations at some schools. For their costumes, Raymond decided upon Hemmingway, completed with a grey comb over, beard, an intricate knit sweater, and lots of padding. Connie was hell bent on dressing like Scarlett O’Hara, corset and all, despite her friend’s warnings, but the look accentuated her small features and stunning blue eyes.

                “Raymond, henceforth you shall be known as Sir Ashley Wilkes. O Ashley, Ashley.” George snickered, and then batted her eyes like Scarlett O’Hara would.

                “Sure, I’ll be glad to share in your misfortune of having a name unsuitable for your gender,” Raymond poked. George decided to dress as Austen, and even cut bangs so she could curl the shorter pieces around her face. To complete her look she ordered a cottage bonnet, and a sprig muslin cross-over dress directly from Bath. 

                With the rest of their funds combined they rented a moving truck, and a megaphone. When the day of the protest came, they were all excitement and nerves. They were asked to participate in an interview on the morning newscast, in full costume, for the daily six through ten morning broadcasts. Unfortunately, for the young group, it was the news station that their parents watched religiously. As their story began to air, the parents whose offspring were featured were soon wiping coffee they’d projected from their mouths and noses from the television sets. The sets were promptly abandoned as the parents set off for Detroit.

                That afternoon as the crowd began to gather, the three friends were awed by their work. People came from all over; students, professors, administrations, writers, avid readers. Some in costume, some in slogan shirts which read things like, “I’m With the Banned”, “Protagonist”, “Careful or you’ll end up in my novel,” and “Reading is Sexy!”

                George addressed the crowd via megaphone, “On behalf of my friends and myself, I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for your generous contributions to our joint literacy project. It was here that my friends and I become inspired to unite people under a common cause. Not just to protest the injustice that we face from people for forcing us to justify our love for the written word, but for us all to come together, united in love, and adoration for the great authors and poets that have come before us. Though not all of us have been called by the higher powers to write, some of us were meant to read, other were meant to teach; however, never mind your calling, because all of us make up a segment of the intricate web of the written word; the beautiful words that beckon us, like a lighthouse beckons a ship in a storm, through the monotony and gray dullness of day-to-day life. The three of us, found consolation in one another from the hardships we faced in the name of our most passionate love, never had we expected so many to share in this love. It is an abundant joy, to see all your beautiful faces, as you look around, I hope you all that in the imagery of this great and symbolic scene. Carry with you for inspiration for all your future endeavors. Now please meet, mingle, network, and form bonds through your common passion for literacy. Thank you!”

                The group was met with a wall of applause. The people began to talk with one another, debate about different authors, and discuss the up and comings of the present century. As the small group of friends began to make their way through the crowd and join in discussions, church bells throughout the city began to chime noon. As the bells ceases, screams rang from the edges of the assembly.

                “GEORGE! GEORGE!” her parents yelled as they fought through the crowd to approach her. “This is all very cute, but we think it is best that you leave school and come home for awhile. Obviously, school is not your calling at the moment, and your mother and I believe that it is best you come home for awhile to put your head back together. To get your priorities straight.” The people began to crowd around the little side show, and watch in awe. George felt overwhelmed by the mass of people, and the mass of anger she was trying to fight back.

                “Are you serious? Why are you doing this to me? Obviously, my head is together, otherwise none of these people would be here right now. Look at what my friends and I have done! We’ve brought people together; we raised money and awareness for Literacy Projects here in the city!”

                “This is all very cute and fun George, but this post-teenage angst rebellion is getting a little old, and don’t you think it’s about time you pull your head out of these books and being to do something useful.” George’s dad said as he tried pulling her to the car by her arm, but the crowd grabbed her and started pulling back.

                “Useful, USEFUL?” George, scream in their faces,” You see that van there it’s full of books and money. We’re not just here to protests against people like YOU, but to preserve a legacy for future generation by assisting with literacy project in the area. So don’t tell me that I am not being useful, stop telling me that I am wrong. Your path is not the only path, your view isn’t the only view, your thought and ideas are your own, but they are too narrow to share with me. You build foundations, and structures your way. I’ll build foundations and structure my way.” George began to walk back into the crowd, but her father reached out, grabbed her bonnet and ripped it off her head. George cried out as the pins in her bonnet pulled out her hair. He threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

                “Son of a bitch, that’s from England.” George cried.

                Other parents began to show, and the crowd already angered by George’s father’s actions met the ignorance of the other parents head on. Ignorance and intolerance pulled apart the gathering by the seams, just as it had tried to pull apart every individual dreamer. Chaos ensued, and not before long the scene took on a similar feel to the ’67 riots. By the grace of God, all the books had been safely stored in the moving truck or all of the literature would have been destroyed, and all their efforts would have been gone with the water as the fire trucks were forced to use hoses to break apart the mob. Later, many of the parents were taken away in squat cars, and students were forced to use what little remaining financial aid they had to bail them out. After the trio had taken the books and money to various locations they had to use the trucks to collect their childhood valuables off their parents’ lawns, where they had been abandoned, before the crazies of suburbia began to crawl out of the word works to pick apart the dead reminisces of childhood like vultures.  To them it was the sweet smell of success sweeter than the smell of must, paper, glue and ink. They were heroes, trailblazers, and that in itself was enough satisfaction to patch the twinges of disappointment and guilt the scene caused them. It was more to them than any memory they could muster up from their childhoods past.

                “I guess our parents were right.” Raymond said.

                Startled, George threw the only doll she had ever owned on the pavement, and its porcelain face shattered on the cement. “What are you crazy? No, we proved if we put our head together we can accomplish anything! Isn’t that enough? After we began this it stopped being about proving a point, it was about doing something greater than just doing something for ourselves.”

                “I only meant that we’ll probably have to live in cardboard boxes this summer. I know a great viaduct, near a field of daffodils.” Raymond replied, as the friends giggled grabbed things to finish loading the truck. Then George got really serious for a moment.

                “No need for that, I got a job, from someone at the rally. I’ve also found an apartment; we’re going after we’re done here to sign the lease. Rent is one me until you guys can find something. Do be quick about it, I’m not a fricken Vanderbilt.” Connie and Raymond stood in front of George in awe and just stared for a moment, “SURPRISE!” she yelled in their face, and turned around to pick up the pieces of the doll off the pavement. The friends were silent, as the contemplated their next adventure, real life. 

At work, displaying my ardent dislike for carrots

The Rents First Visit

My breath shortens, my pulse quickens; I have exactly one week left until my parents arrive in town. At first I was excited about seeing both my parents for the first time since we cut the chord; however, now I am filled with dread. I have spent the last year of my life crawling out of the A-town gutter, and into a new life here in Detroit. I daydreamed about hugs, kisses, and warm "hellos." Now I am not so sure what to expect.
Let me explain something, I love my parents, but their tendencies to over critical of my life really sends me into a negative place in my head. They have a tendency to find the negative in all aspects of my life: grades, money management skills, time management skills, romance, non-romance, friends, lack of friends. The lingering memories of many a phone call to announce something positive brings on an acerbic tone, and an attack on yours truly. Like if I had enough time to accomplish one item, why did I neglect to accomplish another. Which resulted in my forgetting all my accomplishments, and spending a night in absolute melancholy, and self-medicating with Ben and Jerry's.
I moved away from home, started going to school, found a job, bought a car, won an award for writing my second semester, and ended my year with a 3.8 cumulative GPA. Yes, I still have a ton more to do with my life, but for being away from home less than a year I think I'm doing very well for myself. Yet, the looming insecurities brought on my the way I was raised to think of myself leave me feeling neurotic and insignificant. Perhaps, I am afraid that they'll think I am not assiduous enough. Or perhaps I am attempting to not to get my hopes up about a fairytale family. I am not quite sure, but after my initial excitement subsided all I am left feeling is impending doom. We shall see how this experience turns out.