I talk about my faults like they’re awards I got in high school because sometimes I feel like I have nothing else interesting to say.
I have a need for people’s attention and my frequent pity parties are how I get it.
I have these scars on my body that are like trophies of all the battles I’ve won. I think showing these to people will make them like me – or at least pity me enough to pretend to like me.
When I was younger, my father would make me stop to think about what I was saying so that I wouldn’t stutter so much. Now I’m in my twenties and my dad isn’t here to tell me to slow down. So sometimes my head goes too fast and my mouth can’t keep up. My dad isn’t here to tell me to think before I speak. So now I say things and sometimes I’m not even sure what I said or why I said it.
I want to start by saying yes, your friends still check the Facebook page we made for you. And yes, sometimes people scroll through it and let a tear, or two, or twenty roll down their cheeks.
“I’ve got a hamper full of really loud mistakes
and a graveyard in my closet.
I’m afraid if I let you see my skeletons,
you’ll grind the bones into powder
and get high on my fault lines.”
-Rudy Fransisco, My Honest Poem
I make myself seem like an open book because there is so much to learn about me that I can get away with having things that belong to only me and my mind – and my pen when I put it to use – without people realizing that there is more to me.
For as long as I can remember I have hated wearing shoes. When I was in elementary school, I lived next door to my great grandparents so naturally I visited often. The driveway separating our houses was gravel – most definitely not the most comfortable thing to walk across barefoot. My tiny feet (I’m nineteen now and I’d say they’ve upgraded from tiny to small) became accustomed to the rocks I had to traverse and it no longer bothered me. I climbed trees barefoot. I ran across pavement in the middle of July barefoot. None of it mattered to me, because if I didn’t have to wear shoes, I wasn’t going to.
I would like to start this blog with a story. This is one of my favorite stories to tell because it paints an accurate picture of my general goofiness. One day in middle school, I decided to start a new show – Lost, I think – on Netflix. I noticed the title of the first episode was “Pilot.” A few weeks before that I had restarted the show Supernatural. The first episode of this was also called “Pilot.” I, being young and lacking common sense, thought it was the craziest thing that two shows had the same title for the first episode. I was a curious kid, so I mentioned it to my dad – who of course started laughing. I was confused, but I began laughing as well after he explained to me the concept of a “pilot episode.”