Alrighty, here is where i keep my personal stuff....basically, stuff I've written. Now, I'm not saying its any good, or worth reading, but, hey! If you've got time...take a peek! And, if you have any comments about them, e-mail me (you can find my address on my home page). That would be appreciated...so, enjoy and try not to gag too much! :-)
1) This is a character sketch I had to write for drama class about a fictional character by the name of Marie-Lissa. She is dying of cancer, and is relaying her life story. I had fun writing it, so I thought I'd post it:
Life sucks. I mean, God must be out to get me or something. Why else would I be diagnosed with breast cancer at 36? I should be in the prime of my life - but, instead, my entire calendar is filled with doctor appointments. I guess I should have seen it coming - I mean, my entire life has been downhill, starting with my birth.
A birth which wasn�t planned for. I was pre-mature. My mother was in the movie theatre when her water broke. On a date, I might add. Her date freaked out, and left her stranded there. Broke. She finally had to beg the manager to drive her to the hospital where, 2 hours later, I came into the world. Marie-Lissa. Bad luck from the start.
My father disappeared the moment my mother told him she was pregnant - and we never heard from him again. They were high school sweethearts, my mother and him. Helen and John. The perfect couple. Or so it seemed. Afterwards, my mother had to move in with some hippie friends, and that�s where I grew up - surrounded by protest rallies, and colourfully-dyed t-shirts. I still have nightmares of those times. We lived in a small room in the basement, with one bed, one toilet and a sink. The bathtub was shared by all 6 of us who lived there - my mother, me, and 4 others - who, to this day, I still don�t even know their names.
We lost the house in the summer of �65. I was 6 at that time - and already knew the meaning of welfare. For the next two years, we moved from house to house, friend to friend - or, should I say, lover to lover. My mother slept around. It was how she kept us clothed and fed. I guess I should be proud of the fact we never had to live on the streets - but I�m not.
I think it was around this time that the drinking started. At first, it wasn�t much. Maybe a glass of wine or a cup of beer a day. But, as life began throwing more obstacles at us, my mother chose to drink, as opposed to trying to overcome them - and drink and drink and drink. She swore she would never hit me, even when she was drunk, because her mother used to beat her everyday, and my mom promised that if she ever had a kid, she would never lay a finger on them. My mother wasn�t very good at keeping promises.
I guess some of the time I deserved it. I grew into a rebellious child, looking for ways to piss my mother off. Maybe I lacked the attention I needed, or maybe I just wanted her to be the �bad guy.� In any case, I was hit - a lot.
I didn�t start school until I was 10, but I was smart, so I was able to fit right into my grade 4 class. Okay, so maybe �fit in� isn�t accurate. More like barely there. The kids hated me. They would tease me constantly about everything: my clothes, which were second-hand; my hair, which was greasy and oily; and my limp. I limped when I walked, the result of my mother throwing me against the wall when I was 9. She hasn�t touched me since then. Not once.
My mother�s alcoholism started to get out of hand. She couldn�t hold a job, so we moved around again. I didn�t have a proper education, but I learned the important stuff. Like, which grocery store had the best deal on milk. Or how to avoid phone calls from the credit card companies. It was the 70s. No one cared much about paying your bills - they didn�t track you down, and ring your doorbell, demanding money, like they do now. Those were the days. Life settled down a bit. My mother got a job as a waitress at a sleazy club, so she could drink as much as she wanted, as long as she kept the buttons on her shirt undone.
We moved into a permanent apartment - well, as permanent as we�ve ever gotten. It was more like a broken shack, but it was home. At least, for my teen years. I didn�t have very many boyfriends. Men scared me. My mother would tell me horror stories about the men who came into her work. I swore I would never marry.
I guess I was like my mother that way, not keeping promises. In any case, I did marry. You see, I managed to meet a guy. He was sweet, caring, and rich - perfect - or so I thought. I got married as soon as I was 17. My mother didn�t come to the wedding. She disapproved of the early engagement and said that it was a mistake. I didn�t listen. It was.
I divorced only 2 months after our honeymoon. Turns out that I wasn�t his only love - he had three others. I was such a fool, but, alas, life goes on. And on and on and on. And now I�m stuck here.
He sends me money monthly - that lying bastard - so I get along okay. If you want to call living in a one room studio in the worst part of New York City okay. Then, I�m okay.
I discovered I had breast cancer about a month ago. The doctors say I have less than a year to live. Less than 12 months to fulfill my dreams, achieve greatness, and be happy. I guess that�s why they say life is short. It really is. At least for me.
And that brings me to here. Where I am. Talking to you. I don�t know why I started the conversation, but I�m glad I did. Somehow it helps to talk. At least something helps.
