| I always find myself writing stories in my head. Most often, I do this when I'm alone and driving. It gives my mind time to wander. In speculation, I suppose the stories are actually fantasies about how I wish my life could really be, my own little daydreams. I keep notebooks and publish small stories online and when I go back to look at bygone tales, I am sometimes amazed. How did I write that? Could words really come from my mouth in such a fashion? It's inhuman! I am not that gifted! It's plaguerism! How could some frizzy headed 19 year old college drop-out possibly write anything other than rubbish? Now the real laugh comes at the thought of actually publishing these stories. Yeah.. right. Like I'll ever get a story finished in my lifetime. Sure, I may start at something, but the words will just pile up into a mountain in my head so deep that I can never sort myself out unless I just blow up the whole thing. Boy, am I in a poetic mode today. Must be because I have to be in work in 15 minutes and I can never ever be on time. It's not that I don't try.. I could leave home an hour early and still be late. It's just something in my genes, I guess. 13 minutes now. I don't know if I should bother to tame the tangled mess atop my head or just let people see the sheer horror of how it looks naturally. Of course I laugh this off, drag a comb across my head, fight my hair into a ponytail, and wink at the mirror for good look or laughs since I know I'm not the sort of thing anyone but my grandmother would find anything other than gangly. Yeah, me, the gangly queen of Kansas City. Red tangles of curls, not ringlets here, tangles, down to my shoulders, eyes that could be called green on a good day.. Ha! I skeptically eye my figure and actually laugh aloud. I could be the new twiggy, all flesh, bones, and angles. Even my breasts form an angle, little tiny pointed things, and I do mean tiny here. From downstairs I hear a shout and immediatly shout back at whoever is calling for me to shut-up. As if I don't notice the clock is narrowing down on the last few minutes of my free time, they have to holler up the stairs as if I'm some dog. Come, Annie, good girl, now go to work! Oh boy! Have a cookie! Yeah, right! I quickly roll on some deoderant, pull on my button down white shirt of death and belt my black pants at my hips. A smudge of lip gloss here and some blush there and I actually look like I'm a human being instead of a klingon with a bad wig. I throw on some shoes and race down the stairs, taking them two at a time before pounding my way through the kitchen. I dodge aside my mother's attempts to force her burnt bagels at me and run out to the garage with a shouted apology as I leap into my junker of a car. Of course it takes it's time starting and my countdown is now in the negatives as I race through the streets. I live in northern Kansas City, the Missouri side so don't call me a Kansan. I like it here, lots of trees and quiet neighborhoods seperated from the downtown area. It's rustic and quaint, but has all the convenience of a city. I rush to my job at a the coffee shop and manage to run in 5 minutes late, bellowing my apologies to my boss as I clock in and wrap a dingy green apron around my form. I dive for the espresso machine, but no one is in the shop, so I quickly run to start stocking. Gotta look good for the boss so that being late won't affect my employment, of course. |
