My brother just apologized to me for something he said on the phone. I couldn't help overhearing him; he was only a room away, and even when he stands in the stairwell, it's like a broadcast. He said I'm 19 (which is almost true) and living the life he was at 13. I went into the other room, put my hands on my hips, and gave him a stern look. (I'll have completed my transformation into a mime at approximately this time tomorrow. The virus that's currently all comfy in the right side of my throat has helped hurry the process along by making it painful to even mouth words. I'm never going to be able to call my friends and tell them why I didn't call them and tell them something earlier. Never, ever, ever.) Anyway, after my stern look, John went into the stairwell (and I can't hear the broadcast because I'm not in the adjacent room) but he did have the decorum to call, "Mary? No offense; it was a totally different situation," in such a way that I didn't take the umbrage I'd been eyeing. It actually did sound more like pity than judgment, although I still felt injured. He's been all sweet today (not that he was anything else earlier in the week...well, yes, he was - he was drugged and in withdrawal simultaneously) - calling me the neglected child and saying things like that apology-equivalent with such adorable sincerity. I would like to say, on my behalf, that I'm not living the life he was at thirteen. I'm living a hella important life, even if I am doing it inside an urban cave without the social skills I want so badly (and will have in time; please, please.) I matter and I know it; (clap your hands.)
I just, um, haven't cried yet. So, I thought I'd write another point-free entry because I heard somewhere that no matter how unsuccessful an action you attempt, if you do it three times it'll be effective. (It's a law of theater, and we all know those are accurate. You do not say the name of the Scottish play, and if you're whistling in the theater, you damn well better be Anna, afraid, in The King and I.) ...In better news, I watched a little of a television melodrama I haven't seen in years (and for good reason), and a girl about my age to whom I instantly connected went home instead of dying. The way this one scene went I thought for certain she had killed herself, and then no... Someone stood on the street and said, "I pick you" to the girl who had never been anyone's.
That's how it's going to be. That's how it is, and I'm going to learn to know that. In the back of my superheroine bag of tricks, I keep the memory of a dream I had a few years back. My whole family experienced a miracle, but only I saw it, and my job was to describe for them exactly what the miracle looked like. I wonder what sort of mental hospital I'd end up in if I went to a occupational counselor and put under my career goals: Describe the miracle. Be a miracle. Love big, live sincerely, (eat good meals) and don't die.
I have impressive typing skills; does that help?
~me
^someone sent me a card that said that once. I know the sweetest people in the world...no wonder I love them.