My life, in words. I suggest you don't read it, just because most of it is prone to be unreasonable or just bad writing, but that's life, eh? I may have replaced some names, but most are the same, probably.
I watched the park bustle with activity, a notepad balanced on my knee. My fingers were twirling a black pen again and again, punctuated by my occasional, defeated sighs.
“Don’t you want to ride our bikes or something?”
My sister’s voice gave me cause to look up but, sighing again, I proceeded to doodle on the paper.
“No. I don’t feel like it. Go with Ham, okay?”
Our younger sister appeared at the sound of her name, her wild hair bouncing as she ran towards us.
“Did someone call me?”
I jerked a thumb towards Mina, continuing with my doodle.
“Don’t look at me.”
I heard Mina echo my sigh, clearly annoyed, and walk off, tailed by her youngest sibling. They could do whatever they wanted, honestly, and it wouldn’t have made me leave the shade of the tree or the comfort of a wooden bench. I could be obstinate and, when forced against my will, my wrath would be incurred. Said wrath consisted of numerous dark looks and a temporary vow of silence. Temporary meaning that I could never really stop talking and, if I tried, would only end up making my life boring as hell.
I looked up again, somewhat bothered to be startled from my thoughts, but let the matter slide, putting on what I thought was the most fitting expression I could muster.
“Hi.” I squeaked, watching and waiting until he kept jogging, rounding the bend in the trail and disappearing from sight.
I sighed with relief, leaning back, and let the usual indifferent expression wash over my face. I wasn’t one for melodramatics, but even then was prone to short-lived infatuations. They usually ended when I had fully convinced myself that any form of relationship was beyond someone who looked and acted the way I did, and that revealing any attraction I felt would be viewed as bizarre and disgusting.
What was odd was that I myself was an avid romantic. The idea of love both puzzled and fascinated me. Seeing couples made me secretly smile and feel my inner sap emerge. I wrote often of romance as well, trying reluctantly to convince myself that it would satisfy any desire I had to be loved. It didn’t, not in the least, but added to my skewed view of the world.
That made me wonder, sometimes, if love was even real. Sure, it existed within families, but that was a different thing entirely. I speculated if it was even love at all, but a heady combination of lust and familiarity. A story like ‘The Beauty and the Beast’ would never happen. Belle would reject the beast because of his looks, marry the other man fighting for her affections, and scorn the monster, ending his chances of returning to human form. And if things were the other way around, if Belle was a rude princess who got turned into a beast, the prince wouldn’t give her a second look. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d chop her head off for looking ugly.
Beauty was such a superficial concept, so much so that even I wondered why it was such a focal point of anything and everything. And especially for women. That was unfair to the point where it made my blood boil.
I was startled from my reverie when a Frisbee flew into my face, knocking my glasses from me and making my nose throb. I felt the urge to snap but, fixing my now-askew hair, prepared to give someone a very stern lecture.