This is pretty much an autobiography, but hope for it to read as fiction. It's just a start to what will hopefully be a finished novel someday. I've never written anything before so I'm interested to see what someone thinks.
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I can't really figure out where my life went wrong. Maybe it was the fact that I grew up in an idyllic family. Mom and Dad rarely fought...if ever. My sister and I were close in age and got along well. I wasn't often left out of her life. Even when she was supposed to be way to cool for me, she let me tag along. I wasn't privileged, but I never felt deprived of anything. (Although there was that time my mother forced me to throw my bottles away. You know, when I was 4 year old still sucking on a bottle.) In fact, I can't think of anything that I desperately wanted, but never got. We didn't have pets (stupid bitch sister just had to let that dog bite her when she was little), but in all honesty it didn't bother me that much at the time.
As a child, I played outside every night that it was warm enough...yes, even after dark. You wouldn't catch our neighborhood kids coming in from hide-and-seek before dark. Small town, safe town. (Except for that time we were almost attacked by the dobermans.) I was never a latchkey kid and only suffered through a short stint in daycare. So short that I really don't remember it. There are pictures. They're my only proof. Nope, my mom vacated her career and stayed home with us and provided us with our every need. She cooked for us, cleaned for us, and came running when we had nightmares. That's what she wanted and that's what she loved.
Dad worked a lot, but he was far from vacant from our lives. He left early for work and almost always came in to kiss us goodbye even though we were fast asleep. (He always listened to Paul Harvey: News and Comment while he ate breakfast.) He was always home for dinner, which was always home-cooked and we ate as a family. Dad did everything for us from building a sandbox to putting together our jungle gym and building a fence so we could have a swimming pool. He even caught for us when we decided that softball was our sport and pitching was our position of choice. Yes, I said us(he sat through mine and Lora's pitching practice). All of this, on top of home repairs, remodels, and even gardening and of course his job.
I can't really figure out what it was that so royally screwed me up, but surely all of that had something to do with it. Right? Sorry. I often, rather awkwardly, like to over-share the background of my life before being properly introduced. Hi. I'm Stacey. You can call me...Stacey(nicknames just never catch on). I'm a mid-eighties baby which means I get to remember my exploration of day-glo leggings and oversized t-shirts before delving into the wonderful world that is flannel and baggy jeans. I also got to sport those badass bangs that resembled a fountain as well as several spiral perms. In my ripe old age of 26, I've decided that the fashion world has run out of fully original concepts, therefore, they've begun to revamp the best and worst of decades past. Hey, let's face it though. We're all suckers for nostalgia mixed with a modern flare. Fuck, hair-crimping has even had a small comeback.
Anyway, back to that whole screwed up thing. I'm not kidding. What the fuck happened? Most days I'm fairly certain that I'm suffering from some severe mental illness that I've never heard of...or maybe hasn't even been diagnosed in the history of time.