I Miss Writing

I like to write.  I would say that I am fairly good at it.  

I like to be sarcastic.  I enjoy being humorous about my sadly boring life.

I don’t talk about it much, but I guess I will write it down somewhere, so perhaps at least one human being can benefit from my anecdotes.

I didn’t realize I liked to write until I was a senior in high school.  To be honest, I can’t write analytical essays, like the ones where you read Beowulf and then chose 23 quotes from it to support your thesis on how he was actually bionic.  But if you asked me to give you five pages about how my sister used to think she was a Husky, or about my favorite flavor of potato chips, I could conjure something up by sunset.

So during senior year, we would have mini contests when our essays were due.  We would split into three groups and swap essays with each group.  All of the essays were anonymous, and you never read one by someone in your group.  Then each group picked their favorite and read it aloud.  Among those three, one winner was chosen.

Now of course, with my eloquent writing, I was normally picked as one of the favorites in a group.  I tend to think my writing is excitable to read.  But of course, each time my essay would be chosen to be read aloud for the final round of judging, that one kid who sounds like he can’t speak English properly volunteers to be the group speaker.

Now I’m not saying I need someone like Morgan Freeman to read aloud my essays in a deep manly tone, but it would be nice if it was a Baptist priest, or Jay Leno.  One cannot receive the full enjoyment of my thought process when my sentences are being butchered one by one.

Nevertheless, I forgave the class each time they clapped slightly louder for that one kid that appeared to be an ounce more sarcastic than me.  I knew deep down inside that I was a winner. 

When my sister, who is five years younger than me, was in second grade, she had to write an essay about her family.  Of course, she had trouble with grammar and articulating herself properly at the age of 7, so I might have guided her pencil in her notebook just a slight bit- well more like the entire thing.  Later on in that month, there was to be a back to school night for parents, and they were to chose the best essay from every grade to be read out loud to the parents whilst they drink water and snack on stale cookies.  My “sister’s” essay was chosen to be read aloud.  

I told my parents to relish this opportunity, as I relive my elementary school years vicariously through my sister.

I don’t quite know how it is that I have seemed to accumulate so much angst and sarcasm into one hopeless mind, which only magnifies endlessly.  Perhaps the more I know, the less magical it all seems.  The more that inarticulate boy read my essay, the less appealing it grew to be. The more I tried to glorify those around me, the less rewarding it became.

I have a lot contained in this body.  It’s decaying, and blooming, and constantly spitting up things that I will never understand.  It has for my whole life.