I don’t know why I’m such a pessimistic, rude, mean person. My mother was always so cheerful and full of life. But maybe that was the reason within itself. My mother had so much optimism, that she took it all from me too, leaving me as a person who sees the worst in everyone. My father on the other-hand has never been in my life; he was apparently quite abusive to my siblings and mother before I was born. I’m glad that I’ve never met him because the only thing that I hate more than people is the male gender. No, I’m not a lesbian or a feminist, but there’s just something about men that I can’t stand; their dominance and controlling nature are probably the main contributors. I hate being told what to do, I hate having rules and regulations, and I hate not being able to do whatever I want. No, I’m not a rebel without a cause; I just hate not being in charge. You may also think that I’m going to end up being some kind of serial killer because of my hatred for people, but no. I want everyone to have to suffer through their lives just like I have thus far. I don’t believe in your ridiculous God story and I don’t believe in your savior. You may say that’s the reason I have such a bad outlook on life, but I can assure you it’s not. Every Christian I have ever known has been afraid of Hell and that’s why they believe and worship their god. I refuse to believe in something just because I’m afraid of what will happen once I die.

Let me tell you more about myself. I’m a 5’6” short-haired blond with rectangular glasses and I weigh approximately 110 lbs. My appearance may come off as a geeky and fragile, but I‘m far from it. I don’t care about school, education, or grades. Ridiculous standardized tests don’t faze me. I work as a journalist/novelist; I write articles for miscellaneous magazines on all different subjects and I’m in the process of writing a book. I have a blog that criticizes movies, actors, food, restaurants, books, and anything else I come across in life. People seem to like it and they give me feedback. I just write to get the days to pass by faster. Writing is one thing in life that I actually enjoy, although at times I hate it. Writers block is probably the worst thing that happens to me.
If I hadn’t mentioned, I’m nineteen years old. I’ve been graduated from high school since I was sixteen and I’ve been living on my own. I haven’t spoken to my mother or siblings since I left and I enjoy it that way. I live in a small apartment and I own a car that gets me where I’m going. I don’t want nor need anything fancy because I’d rather not stand out in this crappy, pathetic, self-centered world.
Maybe you’re thinking that I’m lonely and I just need someone to make me happy, but you shouldn’t assume things. I’ve managed to have a couple long-term boyfriends. One was when I was fifteen and he was sixteen. I don’t want to get sappy, but he was my first love. He would do anything for me and I was the same to him. We dated for two years, until I was seventeen. I broke up with him because I felt that he was keeping me from becoming successful. I was just starting my writing career and I didn’t want to be burdened with the drama that a relationship brings. My second relationship lasted about a year, from eighteen to nineteen. He was twenty-two when we started dating. I broke up with him because he was completely too immature. All he was concerned about was partying, which wasn’t my scene. I have nothing against drinking, especially when it’s legal, but that’s all his life consisted of. I didn’t want to support his lifestyle, so we broke up. Guess where he is now? He’s living in his old bedroom at his mother’s house. I’m glad I got rid of him.

Although she had optimism that flowed out of her ears, my mother and I used to fight a lot. She said it wasn’t healthy to sit in my room and write all the time. I would then ask her if it would be healthier if I was promiscuous and did drugs. She had no counter-point, so she would get mad and take away my laptop. That didn’t make much of a difference because it would give me an excuse to write in my journal. It was a lot less convenient and my hand would cramp after a few hours, but that’s when I would realize how much more emotional writing is than typing. When you type, the words are on a screen; within seconds I can delete everything and never get it back. But with writing, you have to write every single word in your own hand-writing with your own strength and mentality. You may disagree, but I honestly do not care.

I remember a time when I was younger, when I longed to be social. I used to care what people thought about me, but then I realized that if someone didn’t like me, then they didn’t need to be in my life. I wasn’t a quiet girl; I stood up for myself and what I believed in and I didn’t let anyone push me around. No one ever dared to lay a hand on me, usually because I could outtalk the girls and I was too tiny for the guys to even bother. Through my high school years I was known as “Big-Mouthed Grace,” which I didn’t think was a very clever name, but what more could I expect from the people in this small town?
I live in Middlefield, Massachusetts. Everyone knows each other and everyone knows every little mistake you’ve ever made, which is horribly irritating. My dream is to move to a huge city where I won’t even know one-sixteenth of the people and they surely won’t know me. Getting lost in a huge crowd just sounds so inviting, you’re surrounded by hundreds of people, yet you’re irrelevant to every single one of them.
When I was in school, I would write poems. I have binders and notebooks full of them. Anything can inspire me, from a guy, some random drama queen, a bird, or even a little blooming flower. Honestly, writing is the only thing I can really do. I hate mathematics, science and history. English language and literature were the only subjects I ever got good grades in. My mother would always yell, “What kind of job are you going to get with writing silly stories?” Well, mother, I hope you see now that I’m living quite a decent life with ‘writing silly stories.’ My mother wanted to see her children become something great, but she didn’t see that in me. My oldest brother was in college studying law, while my sister was studying to be a dentist.
I got a job when I was thirteen at a local restaurant. I swept floors and cleaned dishes for two years until I got promoted to a waitress. I saved every single paycheck I got and paid for the down payment on an apartment when I was sixteen, which I still live in today. I always knew that I wanted to move out as soon as I possibly could. I hated not having privacy or a place to completely call my own. When I turned seventeen, I began interning for the local newspaper. Six months later, I got hired there and I quit my waitressing job. I wasn’t appreciated at either places, but at least I could have some dignity while writing. The only thing that I don’t like about newspapers is that you can’t be completely biased on any subject. You have to tell the story from both points of view and give lots of facts and statistics.

Let me assure you that there’s a point to this story of mine. Remember the first two sentences I said in this whole story? No? Well, let me refresh your mind. I said: Everyone thought I was a normal girl, but now they’ve discovered the truth; they’ve found out how cruel and wicked I really am. Not only am I hateful towards other people, but I’m even more horrid towards myself. This is entirely true. I’m horrible towards people, like I’ve explained, but I have yet to explain how I’m even worse to myself.
I’ve always had high expectations for myself because I wanted to show everyone that I can be successful on my own without any help. I’ve done a very great job at that, but I must admit that there have been a lot of bumps along the way. On multiple occasions, I’ve resorted to alcohol and hard drugs to help me forget about all of the stress I’m under. Suicide has come across my mind, but I know that suicide is for quitters and I will never be one. The majority of my drug and alcohol abuse was when I was seventeen until I was nearly nineteen, which was the reason I met and eventually broke up with my boyfriend. I was sick of being a low-life junkie and I needed to get out of it while he was still living it up.
I regret doing everything I did for those few years because you can see the track marks in my arms and I don’t look as young as I am. I like to think of it as a learning and maturing experience. I’m more than surprised that I kept my jobs in those years and it makes me really proud of myself that I managed it. I’m completely clean now and have been for about seven months. I wouldn’t really say that I was addicted to the drugs, but I was addicted to not having a care in the world. It’s honestly the best feeling that anyone could ever have, but it really messes with your head and body. My past hasn’t caught up with me yet, but I’m waiting for the day that it does. If I do become a huge novelist like I wish to, then I’m sure some creep will find out about it or my spiteful ex-boyfriend will rat me out. Hopefully people will be better than I imagine them to be and they’ll understand what kind of stuff I was going through. I’d love to see people being sweet and caring, but junkies are mostly the only people I’ve been around and their personalities aren’t pretty.
I’ve had a lot of people take advantage of me, in any way that you can think of. I try not to think about it because it upsets and angers me. I suppose that’s the main reason why I don’t like the male gender. I’ve never really thought about these issues until now and it all makes a lot of sense. I think more people should write because you can be your own therapist sometimes.
Another bump that I came along was hearing that someone that I knew form my high school had died of a drug overdose. I wasn’t particularly friends with the person, but it just made me think about myself and how it could have been me. I also felt so sorry for the person’s family and friends because I’m sure that they were deeply loved. Sometimes I just sit and wonder if anyone would be upset if I had died and I wonder how long it would take for someone to find my deceased body.
From time to time I ride the train to New York City. I don’t go to shop; I go to see the marvelous city. While I’m sitting on the train, I chat with someone sitting close by. When they’re really involved in the conversation, I tell them about my life and how I’ve messed up and they tell me about their lives too. I’ve stopped doing this so often because of the stories I would hear. I’m regularly thankful that I refrained from traveling when I did because I’m not sure how many more stories I can take, but sometimes I wish I’d let myself overdose because the stories show me how terrible people truly are.

I hate to contradict myself, but maybe I don’t really hate people. I just like to give off a mean front at first; I had to scare you away before I let you in. I’d really like to be able to trust people like I once did when I was younger. I wish people didn’t hurt me as much as they do. Maybe I am lonely, maybe I just need someone to hold me at night and tell me that everything is going to be okay. We all need that, don’t we? We all need someone to keep us from falling to the ground in tears when life is just too difficult.
I believe in love, but I haven’t found it yet. I think that there’s a soul mate somewhere in the world for me and for everyone else. Oh, I hate getting sappy with love stories, but I believe that the ultimate goal in life is finding someone to love.
Now that I’ve told you about me inside and out, why don’t you go write something? Don’t just write some stupid cliché story; write about yourself because nothing is more original than that. All you simply have to do is write a detailed journal for a couple years and you’ll have an amazing novel. Maybe you’ll need to change some names and tweak some details, but it’s still the same storyline.
My life may be far from perfect, but I’m content with it. I have a home to come to after work. I have a job that I’m happy with. I’m quite healthy considering things that I’ve done in my past and I’m happy.
All of this random optimism makes me want to call my mother and siblings; it has brought out a whole new me that I’m proud of. I’m afraid of what they might say, but maybe they’ll appreciate it. I think I may also contact my two ex-boyfriends to see how they’re doing. Maybe they’ve been better off without me, which would be bittersweet to hear, but that’s life. I’ve done quite well without them too. I also want to go on another train ride to New York, I want to hear more stories and compare them with mine.

Isn’t it strange how in one short story a whole outlook on life can change? I thank writing for this. I’ve explained to you multiple times how fantastic it is and how it’s helped me. I think that authors are the most incredible people in this world. They’re so much more real than average people; so much more vulnerable.
When I was younger, my mother always told me to reach for the stars. I haven’t been doing that but I think I’ll start. I think that I’m starting to gain my mother’s optimistic attitude. Maybe this is what growing up really is; learning to forget all of the bad things in life and learning how to make the great things stand out.
Hello, my name is Grace; I’m more than pleased to meet you.