And the Rain Came

A quick note on how we are always children. 

I am exhausted. I have been up for some crazy amount of hours at this point and I’m drunk so I’m fucking crazy. It’s funny. Everything is funny.

“Do you like me?” he asks. That’s less funny. That’s frightening.

I don’t want to tell him that I’ve liked him a whole year and a half. That I’ve been struggling with my ardent love for him and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be a good boyfriend. And that if we were together we would fuck everyone over when we inevitably broke up. And I couldn’t risk telling him that I liked him more than a friend, because, as it usually ends up, he won’t like me back.

“Of course I like you. You’re my friend.”

He clearly is unsatisfied with my answer. He thinks I’ve misunderstood him. “No I mean if you like me like more than a friend.”

I lower my gaze, “Do you like me more than a friend?”

“I asked you first.” He says it like we are children, like we are on a playground, poking each other with sticks and not truly understanding of what it menas to love someone and to love them a long time. We are like children who don’t understand how mom and dad came to be and can’t imagine them being apart, like god put mom and dad on this earth together to take care of us.

And yet we are not children. We are adults and we are drunk, both literally and figuratively. We are soaked in the rain and I’ve already gotten my period and Eddie has groped me and we both know what it means to love although he knows the pain of it more than I do.

“I’m drunk, I’ll say something stupid,” I feign exasperation in the situation and turn my head.

Me, I Guess

So, I’m doing the Blogging 101: Zero to Hero** thingamabob and completely spaced on doing the first post…which was yesterday. The prompt was to just say a little bit about myself. I think my about is a good representation of that, but I guess I’ll just give you a quick overview of myself with these nice bullet points:

• I am an acting student, currently in my first year of university
• I also write (hence the blog)
• I am a HUGE Nancy Drew fan (both the books and the games. s/o herinteractive)
• I belong in the 1930s or 1940s. Or 1920s. I am not of this time period.
• If I could, I would never wear an outfit more than once. #stylebitches
• I hate myself for using a hashtag on this blog

Now, onward to the point of this blog.

I want to be able to hone my writing and start exploring different forms of writing since I have stuck very closely to fiction for the past…four years maybe? I want to become more curious through this blog and so far, I feel I have been accomplishing my goal. Stay tuned for more silly ramblings, attempted works of fiction, and maybe even a poem if I write anything not too shitty.

Thank friends. Please put up with my for the next thirty days while I try and better my blog.

 

**The title only makes me think of the seminal classic, Disney’s Hercules. Enjoy this sassy picture.

The Fact in Fiction

The Typewriter Variations

When I was in sixth grade, I asked my dad for a typewriter. He went down into the basement and pulled out my grandfather’s typewriter that hadn’t been used in years and years. For two months of my life, I would sit and type up stories and dialogues and began to fall in love with writing. Finally, the old, old ribbon ran out of ink and I gave up on it.

In eighth grade, I got my first laptop. It was a pink Dell laptop. I named her Shelly. I typed up my first attempts at novels, those that would never be finished. Since then, I’ve owned two more laptops–Jeff, who was Shelly’s sudden replacement when the display gave out and then Leopoldine, who I am writing this blog on.

People look at my funny when I tell them I have named my laptops. It’s not an attachment thing, or a creepy thing…it just happened.

Above all of this, the typewriter stood true, above all else. I never worked better than on that typewriter, without the internet and iTunes, and all that racket. So, this blog, written from my computer, are variations from that typewriter that my dad pulled out of the basement all those years ago. Maybe it will be a story, long form, short form, or a poem, or just me talking. Not that I don’t do enough of that, but now you all can read it.

Now, let’s begin.