make believe

When I was a little kid... I used to say "mape-ba-leave" instead of make believe.... i guess they sounded close enough to the same thing, that it didn't matter.

I'm "sick" today. Nothing important, just a little fever, a dry cough, and a bad attitude. I'm sitting on my couch, starting a book called "Acing Your First Year of Law School"... I don't know that I'm going to study law, I've thought about it, but reading about it now seems better than doing the stuff I should be doing.

As I sat here today, flipping through the first couple of pages, I started thinking that I should write a story. Well, actually I started thinking about the power we each have, to write our own stories. I mean, if life is completely fucked up and terrible (which thankfully, mine is not), then one could write their own story, live in a fantasy land, make believe their own happiness.

Everyone has different ways of "coping" and "living" and "being". Some do it through story, others through music, many thought booze and drugs, etc... What's my way, you ask? Hmmm.... all the above? No, not really.

If I were to write a story, there'd be a little girl as the main character. One with brown skin and skinny ankles. She'd have a cool bmx bike, and be riding around her neighborhood, talking with kids, parents, and elders. Her name? I don't know, yet.

This girl though, she'd be riding her bike, dragging her toe when she needed to stop, ruining the shoes she'd been wearing too long. She'd ride and ride, and the sun wouldn't set. Nope, not in this story. There'd be a decent breeze, about 10 mph, and the thermometor out back her mom's house would read 82 degrees. Not too hot, especially not with the wind. The sun just beats down on her neck and shoulders, reminding her she's always around warmth and protection.

She falls off her bike. Fuck. She wiped out good. Oh well. It just adds to the many scars on her elbows and knees, scars she's proud of and shows off to the neighbor boys. She picks herself up from the street, puts the chain back on her bike, and wipes her greasy hands on her already dirty jeans. That's what soap is for, she thinks, although she hates washing her clothes, because they always get dirty again. What's the point, she wonders? Whooosh! She jumps back. A car flies by. Some coins fall out of her pocket. She smiles, as her dirty fingers pick them up, one at a time, and return them to her pocket.