As a Stephanie, I am a person. I am spiritually intense. My name brings love and new stars into life. I do feel that I have more love for people or whoever’s, no matter how much they aggravate me. I do tend to have an exciting life, if I do say so myself.
I have always known I have artistic visions. I am a writer, after all. So apparently, I can pass that off to my name. Along with those visions, I am always looking for an opportunity to do research of the unknown. Hold on a second while I go retrieve one of my books about a haunted dwelling. Maybe I, a Stephanie, will also one day figure out what the meaning of life is. Perhaps this would help me grow wise and to understand people more.
So then how do I become a writer when I can’t even begin to write out all of these other ideas that are in my head? I want to write how Brian and I met and fell in love. I want to write about how a group of fat girls gathered together, created fake profiles as good looking skinny girls, then began to murder the boys who had rejected them. That is the idea I want to have the most fun with, yet I have no idea how to begin it! I try to make myself sit down and write. I want to make myself write! I want to be a writer! I have so many ideas from my Pinterest. Stupid Pinterest. I have my phone remind me every three days, I believe, to write, yet, when it goes off, I do not abide by it. I just ignore it, as I have been doing when it beeps at me to exercise. How am I supposed to write about all of these ideas in my head when I can’t seem to motivate myself? I can’t seem to think about where to start. Where did all these authors begin? Did they start at those first words in the books that are sitting upon my shelf?
It doesn’t matter what I write about. No person will read what I have to say. No one on this Earth even listens to me, so why would they read what I even write about? I could walk into a room, filled corner to corner, shoulder to shoulder with people, wriggle my way up onto the stage just to be ignored as I was shouting through a megaphone that there were free tacos at the bar. So why would anyone even want to read about what I have been doing these past few months? No person would even read what I did yesterday. I could fall off of a cliff and no person on this planet would even notice.
My life is still standing. It’s all in one piece. Why do I even write? Does anyone, other than my mother, even read any of this? If you do; please raise your hand. I need to be acknowledged in some way. I need to not be ignored. You may say that I’m not, but I often feel that I am.
I am ignored in more ways. When I think plans were made between me and somebody, my excitement begins to build as that day approaches. I repeatedly glance at my phone, expecting a reminder or a mention of what we had spoken of a few days prior to this date. Then, when that day arrives, my phone is still empty, my messages still ignored, my emotion of loneliness and aggravation begins to rise inside of me. Zack, my poor stuffed zebra, begins to endure the pain of me squeezing out all of these irritations into him. Poor little guy. My phone is empty. My life is empty. I am empty. Like I had mentioned above, I could leave my life and no person would notice. I sometimes want to.
I should do that one day. Just disappear, like my ideas for writing tend to do. If I had a better car, I would just hop into it just to drive anywhere and everywhere without mumbling a word to anyone. If I had the ability to venture away from my pharmacy for more than 30 days, I would do this. Yet, as I am one of those individuals who cannot go a single day without taking their medication I feel like I can’t venture far. Well, in a way, I can, yet I would just be on the floor, arms and legs swinging around from side to side, my mind having no idea who any person in the room was. Not that I ever do, even now.
I could be in a room with other people, talking to some of them, when suddenly another one feels that what they have to say cannot wait a single second longer so they must explode into the middle of my conversation, drawing all attention away from me. I can’t seem to get attention back to me. When I try to, word over word, take over; nothing. I can’t even try to begin a new conversation when there are a few seconds of silence. I begin to speak, yet when another person does and BAM! All attention is on them. So I just slink back into my dark hole.
From my dark hole, I saw you guys were having some fun this weekend. From all of those pictures, it looked like you and a group of people were having a spur of the moment gathering. Haha; was your phone broken? I can understand if this was a family gathering, but when I catch a glance of people who I do usually see at a big, planned event, I can almost feel my dark hole calling my name again. Especially when I know I had called you that night.
Looking around my bedroom, from my bed that I feel there isn’t really any reason to get out of these days, I am beginning to see things that I don’t feel is belonging to me anymore; my life. I am feeling there is a giant magnet somehow pulling me back to my younger years. Not that I’m old, but I am not supposed to be able to make my own decisions without being required to clear it all with the warden first. If my plans are to be out for the evening, I must have a minute by minute detail of where I will be, what I will be doing, who I will be with. I am beginning to feel as if I have a curfew. When I do come in at the wretched hour of three am, I must sneak past my parents OPEN bedroom door. How do I know they’re really sleeping and not looking at the clock, waiting for me to wander in?
Yet when I seem to write about any of this, no person will ever know. So, I’ll just keep it all shoved into my overflowing mind as I continue to sit alone on my couch. Las Vegas, here I come.