Despite my father beliefs, I never had a crush on one of my teachers until sophomore year in high school. Then again, I could probably rewrite the Gossip Girl franchise with the things my father believes about my life that are more figments of what he saw on television than reality. My father is a very old fashion man, and unfortunately he raised two very not old fashion daughters. Story of my life, whatever, I’m over it.
Point is, the first and possibly only, crush I had on man way older than me was a chubby, brown hair man with blue eyes. That was the semester U.S. History and I became involved. I because true to my teacher’s pet reputation, I knew every answer to the questions he asked and even if I knew the assignment I pretended I didn’t know so he would explain it to me. Yeah, back then I was that idiot.
One day after class, I decided to show him a poem I wrote. (Between you and me, I totally nailed that shit.) He read it, remained impassive, handed it back with a spelling correction and the next thing I know he picks up the trashy romance novel I was currently reading. Now anyone who knew me in high school, knew that a trashy romance novel in my hand was normal. Some girls didn’t leave the house without eyeliner, I didn’t leave without my trashy romance novel.
So he gives me a dismissive glance and says, “These books are ruining your perception of life.” This made me raise a brow as I took my book back in complete distaste for him. I shook my head and thought correction Mr. Stupid, those books were improving my quality of life. Our relationship thereafter was over, I decided we weren’t on the same level of passion for life. I never understood dating, being romantically involved with someone was always a distance fantasy of mine but it was a really bad joke if you stood where I did.
I knew the difference between bullshit and the male species. My father was a leading example, men are about men, and they don’t care if you’re crying or if your feelings are hurt. In fact they only care about how to make you stop malfunctioning long enough to slip their dick inside you. Am I harsh? Probably? Am I right? You bet your ass I am. I knew damn well that nothing I ever read in a book was going to happen in real life.
I didn’t actually end up dating anyone until I was a senior in high school and even then my interest wasn’t invested, I was dating to get the first boyfriend check mark off my list. When I broke up with him I don’t know who was more hurt, him or my mother? My second boyfriend was a joke, a big fat one that in end made me a very stupid idiot. My third time around I got a little smarter. No, I’m not saying that because I’m still with the poor son of bitch, I’m saying it because I paid more attention to the things that mattered to me.
I began talking to him, we liked the same things, and unlike the first boyfriend after two weeks we didn’t run out of things to talk about. I invested heavy time in researching this guy. After the first two months, I was alone with him and the topic of sex hadn’t come out of his mouth, in fact, when I asked him about he said “it’s one of those things, if it happens great if it doesn’t whatever.” Clearly, I was a friend only and deeply in the friend zone. When he met mother. He hated her on the spot, he met my father and he didn’t go out of his way to impress him. Frankly he didn’t give a rat’s ass.
Right there and then I knew I wanted him as my boyfriend. So I chased and pursued him for 7 months until he gave in. It’s been almost seven years and we still fight back and forth about who loves each other more. He’s better than any romance novel, better than any movie character and he’s mine.
Back to the original point. Reading for me was like living. The stories just came alive for me. I could see words as if they were pictures in my mind for my own personal experience. I would get so involved in reading my books I’d cry, laugh and yell back at it like my mother yells at Steve Harvey when he’s on TV. I’d have conversations about them in my journals. To deal with life I began writing my own stories, I would cry, laugh and scream at my own characters. I would take moments from life, moments from movies or one liners from people around me, and I lived with a passion to create.
I write all the time, about me, about other people, about life, about metaphors, about fantasies and I never get bored. There is something about life that everyone needs to remember and that is, that no matter how alone you feel, you’re not. No matter what you go through in life, someone can relate. I don’t think there is anything that can happen to you that you can’t read or write about. We learn from interacting with each other and one of the biggest ways you can do that is by picking up a book or reading a blog. Don’t let anyone tell you what do with your perception of life. The way you see it, is the way you were meant to live it. If it works for you run with it, not from it.