Yeah, so there have been some things that I've wanted to write about for awhile. So what am I doing? Throwing them all in this stupid blog. Why? Why not.
So, I like analyzing my past. It's not because I'm trying to figure out crap about myself. It's just the story that I'm most familiar with, and I love stories. I love MY story. Does that seem narcissistic? Hmm, it might be. I dunno.
Anyway - the day I knew I was weird. I was seven. So imagine this, a fairly average little girl - walking down the sidewalk of her street - looking at the houses that she passed...some being the homes of friends she'd known forever or known for a short time. She knows the backyards. She even knows some shortcuts. She's even old enough to sometimes cross the street on her own to go to her friend's house with the dirt backyard and the German Shepherd. As she's walking from the corner back toward home - the house with the big yard.....Daniel/Danielle's house....the lot....Nicky and Melanie's house....the dark house....the Zoots/Amy's House....home. Right before Nicky and Melanie's house...a thought. "What if I'm not real? What if I'm just someone else's dream? What if dying is just someone else waking up?"
That's the day I knew I was weird. Whoever is dreaming hasn't woken up yet.
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