Hypothetically I could start out with the most common beginning to a bio about myself, where I was born, ideals, and frankly what it is that makes me who I am. I could speak of my middle-aged parents and their humble up-brings, or of my older sister who stores immeasurable love on the inside, but on the outside that love shows no sign of getting out. I have learned vast amounts of knowledge from my parents, some good and some relatively questionable. My father, a strong hard working ex-military man taught me emotionally abandoning your family is an inconspicuous practice passed down through his family, consequently making me a pessimist. My mother, who relentlessly prays to win the lotto, yet does not actually play the lotto. Still finds it appropriate to cruse a God she only knows when she is angry because of her unfortunate unluckiness, has made me somewhat optimistic. Therefore I am quite optimistic for a pessimist, though I would try to choose a side if I were not stuck in an apathetic state of mind.
My childhood was filled with broken promises, heart-ache, and a longing for an idealistic family, but ‘The Brady Bunch’ and ‘The Cosby’s’, I fear had an enormous part in not accepting my family for who they were or for what they were not. “Why would my mother not wear favorable dresses and have supper on the table when my father came home?” I always asked myself. He should come through the door with a smile on his face and kiss my mother on her cheek, but instead I am filled with memories of a man in his chair with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Do not dare get in his way, “You’re not made out of glass,” were the words I remember, “or was it, your father wasn’t a window maker?” Either way I turned to my imagination and became lost in worlds filled with unfathomable places, extraordinary creatures, and an untouchable beautiful girl, played by me of course. Though I do not believe that I ever fully returned to the realistic world because 95% of my day is spent day dreaming and it is something that I have always chariest. Most children are forced into reality and they forget the invisible forts and imaginary friends, but I still hold on to that little piece of myself and dare anyone to try and ripe it from me.
I am a writer, though I have never had anything published. I am a lover of all things, though I am afraid of anything that is not human. I am a believer, though I do not have a religion to call my own. Hope is my greatest ally and fear is a horrid enemy, yet I never let worry stand in my way because I feel that worrying in wasteful. I wish that I could feed, clothe, and comfort the world. I hope that one day I am greatly remembered by the words I leave behind and by the people who cared to listen. I want nothing more than to live up to the standards that I set for myself and speak my mind when I am opposed to things, even if they are viewed as un-politically correct. I am a dreamer, a lover, a friend, an enemy, a vast mind, but I will not be defined. I want to be the unknown, a blank, an echo, and a mystery, because I never want to be a predictable being.
All my life experiences have made me who I am today and although some are not as grand as I would have hoped, I would not change them for all the glory in the world. I suppose I could have held some sort of indifference towards my parents, but who would stand to gain anything from it. Through their disinterest in me, I found an interest in the power of words and in the satisfactory of creating stories filled with anything I could ever imagine. If my life did not take the path that it did, than maybe I would not want to be a writer and then who would tell my story? Yes, hypothetically I could have written all the irrelevant monotonous things about my life, but I feel it is not the facts about a person’s life that makes the story, but how you choose to tell them.
