What’s Your Story
So my mind was set. To the store I would go, by bike. Nothing was going to get in my way. I was going to go over those large Pennsylvania hills to make my way to the nearest….
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I stared at the dirt. This wasn’t just any dirt. This was dirt from behind the bushes, which was next to the hand rail, which was attached to a chain, which was supposed to be wrapped around the bike that I got for my birthday. Instead however, I saw dirt. Plain dirt.
To the JERK who stole MY bike!!!
You have 24 hours to RETURN it
Or I WILL notify the AUTHORITIES!!!
This was the sign I hung outside my door. And this was the response that I got.
“Hey, uhmm…what color was your bike?” said a young fellow around the same age as me. He was surrounded by little kids ranging from the age of six to ten.
“White and blue, why?”
“Well we think we found it…it’s in the canal…it’s actually bent up and crushed and the seat is torn off and stuff….so yeah….”
This, my noble audience, is my life. A series of positively negative, and unexplainable moments that can only be described in one way; I’m the main character of a hit TV show somewhere in some parallel universe.
Not just any television show of course, a sitcom, one of those dark humor sitcoms like “Everybody Hates Chris,” or “Modern Family.” I of course play the role of the love deprived, quirky, unfortunate teenager, who never seems to get a break. It’s just one wave of let down after another and the only thing I can do is wonder, why me….only me….
There he was, my crush sitting next to me at lunch. We were so close that I could feel the body heat from his smooth tan skin. His voice was deep and his hands waved around as he spoke. It was…mesmerizing. Every girl in my class wanted him, but here he was. Talking to me. Sitting next to me. Laughing with me.
“Hahaha, that’s what she said!”
Then it happened. Perhaps the worst thing that could have happened in a situation like this. As the words “that’s what she said,” spilled out of his lips I could feel my milk and cookies making their way from the roof of my mouth to the bridge of my noise. Slowly, but surely, I watched on the verge of tears as they spewed out of my nostrils and onto his God blessed face. There he sat there in shock and I sat there in amazement. I wanted to say something, do something, erase the entire last thirty seconds. But I just sat there, staring at his now disgusted cookies and crème face while milk boogers came streaming down my (if not before, certainly now) unattractive face.
“Uhm…at least it’s not on your pants, eh?”
Do you see how my life plays out? It’s as if the writers of “my life” decided to add in one embarrassing moment for every breath I take. On top of that the director seems to not only enjoy adding invisible curbs that I constantly trip over, but also mysteriously blinds me when I come near a door and/or wall, and somehow find myself face first into the immovable object. But whatever the creators of “Excuse Me While I Lay My Body on These Train Tracks,” (yes that is the title of which I have given my life) have in store for me; I always end up with the short end of the stick. Literally.
Waking up at 8 in the morning to go to church felt like torture, but boy do I like wearing my Sunday best. Today I looked extra special, since I wanted everyone to remember my beautiful face when they said Happy Belated Birthday to me. Finally I was sixteen and I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I’m one year closer to returning to dust and ashes, and that was fine with me.
“Oh good morning to you sweetheart!” The elderly lady passed me a bulletin with all the upcoming church events. “And don’t you look pretty today!”
“Thanks,” I said faking humility. Yeah I knew I looked good. I better have. I spent a long time getting ready so I could get compliments today. “It’s my birthday.” “Oh how nice! How old are you turning? Fourteen?”
Do you know how long I’ve waited? I’ve waited sixteen years to be sixteen. To finally be able to walk down the street with my permit in my pocket book, and the carry the heir of being a full blown teenager. And this woman thinks that I’m turning fourteen? Not even fifteen? Fourteen! Maybe she’s just too old or can’t see straight. She probably just forgot her glasses.
“Oh no!” I hastily replied. “ I turned sixteen actually.”
“Really? And I was going to guess thirteen, but I figured I’d give you a year. You kids really grow up to be smaller than I remember.”
Maybe I was asking for that one though? Karma should bite you in the butt when you’re fishing for compliments, shouldn’t it? Besides, I get indirect short jokes all the time. People are constantly asking me if I’m a legal midget, saying that I should get a handicapped sign so I could park up front at the mall. Well to those of you who would like to continue to wonder about my “midgetness,” let me take a second to educate you. The word midget is politically incorrect. The correct term is dwarf. In addition to this news, a person who has dwarfism is generally a full blown adult that is less than 4ft and 10in. I on the other hand, exhibit a whopping total height of 4ft 11in and a quarter. A full inch and a quarter above that degrading dwarf line. So the next time you want to crack a joke about me being a midget. Just remember that us little people are looking up and laughing at the stupidity of you.
As a person of smaller stature, you’d think that could easily steer my way out of trouble. Think again. My body just so happens to be a magnet for trouble. Constantly pulling in the closest deepest fix that it can muster its grubby little electromagnetic fields on. I’ve gotten detention twice for forgetting to sign in, left my car light on twice (which resulted in a dead battery with no jumper cables), been escorted by the police three times (in a quite incriminating fashion), and almost got kicked off of my dance team for missing a mandatory rehearsal that I knew nothing about. I don’t like running around acting like I’m the victim whenever I’m approached with conflict, but I honestly haven’t done anything to deserve most of this stuff. It’s either I was a very naughty child in my past life, or these writers keeping throwing in plot twists to keep the viewer ratings up. By now there is no doubt in my mind that my show has outshined American Idol and Dancing with the Stars combined.
Everyone seems to get a kick out of this stuff. Whenever these “unfortunate,” stories leak out, I never hear the end of it.
“Hey, NiSha, remember that time when you got lost in Princeton?”
“Really, you don’t remember that? That time when you were like twenty minutes late for the mass peer group interview?”
“Are you sure? It was last week when you…”
Yes, thank you very much for pointing out that stupid time when I got lost in Princeton. In fact how about you tell me about that time when I was laughing and a fly flew in my mouth nearly choking me. Or how about we converse on that time when I broke my arm running backwards. Have you yet reenacted that moment when I screamed bloody murder when a moth landed on the inside of my dashboard causing me to fly out my driver seat? It gets to a point where weird stuff doesn’t even happen to me. But rather I become the weird stuff that happens.
I could feel it deep inside my veins. Something within me was changing and I didn’t like it. I could hear thunder coming from down the hallways, and my fingers began to twitch. Like Dr. Bruce Banner, I too had a dark uncontrollable side. Once you flipped that switch there was no turning back.
The thunder got louder and louder as I made my way to the center of the hallway. I saw them. My victims. My minions. My parading army! They were all wearing PDS Fencing shirts quickly jogging my way. Fools! You think this is epic? This game has only just began.
My lips cracked into an awful sinister smile and I knew my time was up. I drew in a deep breath and…
“Oh fortuna! Velut luna! Statu Variabilis!”
Sometimes I like to sing 13th century Medieval Latin Goliardic poems at the top of my lungs. That’s normal, right?
Who am I kidding? I’m just as normal as Charlie Scheen’s BiWinning theory. I dream about parallel universes, and fear the illuminati. I half believe that we’re all unique because we’re all alien prototypes being put through trials and tribulations so that they may find the perfect human specimen. And I also believe that if I run fast enough I will be able to run into a mirror and enter a world where everything is backwards. Whether my life is a TV. show or not, is no longer a question for me. As for now, I’m just waiting for it to come out on BluRay and DVD.