Life is the strangest thing. For instance, I just went to prison for a week for false charge and lying for a friend under sworn oath, also known as perjury. Next, the room that I'm typing in smells like musty batteries and mold. Again, just as I'm typing the one stringed light hanging above my head is taking it's last flicker before it completely dies, like with my chances at life.
Being in prison isn't as bad as it seems. Sure, you get beat up almost every day, but after a week of life behind bars, I've blossomed as a writer, and as a better person.
Yet, maybe I'm wrong to be typing this. After all, what am I but a bored, poor conwoman who proves that there's better things to do with life than con a conman and play practical jokes on the milkman? I mean, don't get me wrong, that last string of empty milk bottles attached to the next door dog's leash WAS pre-tty funny, but there's no pleasure without pain.
Though my sick and disturbed joy in not facing the reality is hopeless, I find myself quite hapless living in this two-roomed, grungy apartment high up in New York City. How I went from being orphaned and shunned in a nice, luxurious London estate to scrimping for food and water and being shunned in an unhygenic shithole in North America mystifies me even today.
But I seem to have matured from my days of laying back and relaxing as a natural prat would. And I've survived these harsh times by; A. Trying to learn to write again after a year's off from my outlawed next door neighbour and B. Reliving the sad yet hopeful memories of my prattish life back in the U.K.
I went from an illiterate orphan to a sad, adopted child, to an unwanted stepchild to a partially wanted suspect and a shadowy figure roaming the dark streets in, say...two very long, slaving years of my life.
 Tilly_Witch · Fri Apr 27, 2007 @ 10:30pm · 0 Comments |
