I’d Better Tell The Story…

When I was younger, I was convinced that I was going to be an amazing author when I grew up, that I was going to reinvent fairy tales and get my books published. I think that is a dream that I will work on realising some day. What I’m trying to get at, is that that dream started out around the age of 10 and that is when I started keeping a journal. I have to admit, I had a pretty great way of painting my drama queen feelings on paper. When I still lived at home, I used to read my journal entries to my sisters and we would all just laugh. You’ll see why soon enough. Here is one pretty great entry:

 

May 17, 2006

My mom treats Beatrice like a baby: She always gets her way, she’s allowed to abuse (did I mention drama queen?) her sisters and get away with it, she lies even if there is evidence that she is and mom simply ignores the evidence and babys her. Okay, I’d better tell the story:

I was in the living room praising my straight A’s on my midterms when I threw my hands up in the air and accidentally hit Beatrice in the mouth. It was just an accident, but did she care? NO! She kicked me in the mouth with her shoe on. So I took the shoe and threw it in the kitchen, intending it to go out the back door. Instead, it skidded across the table and knocked the lasagna pan from last night’s dinner off of the table. I turned around and just just as she was going to kick me, I grabbed her other shoe and ran into the kitchen throwing the shoe out.

I then ran, jumped over the wrecked fence into Mark’s (my neighbour and best friend at the time) yard. There was a football. I picked it up, it was flat. I threw it and missed her by feet (I’m not sure how accurate this story is, but you have got to give me props for not leaving out any details). Then she started running after me, so I ran to the front of Mark’s house, forced to stop by a crossing Savannah (Mark’s little sister, 3 or 4 years at the time). I looked back anxiously, Beatrice was gone. Just to be safe, I went all the way around Mark’s yard into our front yard. Beatrice saw me coming and then locked the door. The windows were open. ‘Open the door or I’ll break through the window,’ I shouted. Then, in a flash it seemed, I had the screen out of the window. That wretched Beatrice closed the window. Then, remembering that the back door has no lock, I went through it. I started running downstairs and Beatrice tripped me. Then I chased her upstairs and mom came out of her room, not yelling at Beatrice, but at me.

I liked to go back and read my journals, and on March 17, 2007, I wrote, “I did more damage than she”. Good thing that hind sight is 20/20.

I hope you enjoyed that as much I as I do every time I read it. There will be more to come!

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