And then the first shoe dropped

You just can't trust yourself when you don't sleep - apparently it turns you into a sociopath with dissociative identity. And an obsession for making up rules.

You just can’t trust yourself when you don’t sleep – apparently it turns you into a sociopath with dissociative identity. And an obsession for making up rules.

So I had promised myself I would write every day this month, but to be honest, on Wednesday I was knackered. Technically I’ve skipped also Thursday because it’s 3AM on a Friday now, but I don’t believe in technicalities. Day isn’t over until I go to sleep. Which I’m going to do right now, otherwise it becomes a slippery slope. I’ve pulled this kind of bullshit before, I stay awake all night working on something and I’m like, yeah, just one night, no biggie. Then the day after I consume ridiculous amounts of caffeine to keep myself in an upright position and by the time I should be going to sleep again I’m too supercharged to even consider it. And then the thing goes on until I collapse or something, which I hear isn’t super healthy.

I’m off to bed now, which is kind of a nuisance because I’m totally on a roll and haven’t finished my piece yet. But whatever, I’m sleepy and if it’s good it’ll still be there tomorrow. And if it’s bad, sleepless minds are not the best judges so I wouldn’t be able to notice it and this would be a waste of time. So goodnight, and if you want in the meantime you can read the first 500 or so words. Yep, it’s happening, I’m cheating by posting only the first part of what I’ve written and keeping the rest for tomorrow so that I have backup in case I can’t get anything more down. It’s my blog, I can make my own rules!

Day 5 of #NotNaNoWriMo
Deaths & Rebirths – part 1

The thing about books,” said Greta, as she took hold of the other end of the box which we then lifted from the pavement, “the thing about books is that they’re like past relationships. You must fully enjoy them as long as they last, feel sad when they’re over, and then move on!”

She slammed the car trunk and nodded sideways that we should get in. I climbed into the passenger seat and put on my seatbelt while she scanned the radio frequencies looking for something she’d like to sing along to.

Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

What’s family for, if not help each other move on?”

She grinned at me and started the car, radio playing Stevie Nick’s version of Free Fallin’, and we sang with all of our might.


Greta is my aunt, but I don’t call her that because it just freaks out both of us. She’s only ten years older than me so I see her more like an older sister. My mother was already in high school when she was born and apparently that was the source of major drama. Having grown up as an only child, she not only found her spotlight being taken away from her in possibly the most sensitive stage of a girl’s life, she was also being forced to baby sit. Apparently, my mom used to be a handful as a teenager, and I won’t lie, this information turned out to be pretty handy when it was my turn to sell the drama. Eventually they grew closer, or rather Greta simply grew up and I guess my mom just got over it.

They never enjoyed a “sisterly” bond, though. Their mother, Henrietta, had to go from being a full time stay-at-home mother to being a full time employee at a department store in Newark at the age of 40, after her husband Clive upped and left in the company of an unidentified female. So my mother, whose name is Ingrid, by the way, had to step in and be a second mom to Greta. I know, Ingrid and Greta. Henrietta did love her Swedish actresses, and she wanted names that would remind her daughters to create identities of their own rather than inherit someone else’s. Clearly grandma didn’t enjoy being named after her father Henry, especially after he had walked out on her and her own mom. What are the odds.

From what I hear, especially from my mother, Henrietta was what you would call “a hell of a gal”. I often wish I had got to know her. She passed away, twenty years ago, and mom became Greta’s legal custodian. There’s this picture where she’s holding baby me, the sweetest of smiles on her face. Greta and mom have often told me that I look like her, that I have her nose, her profile. I’ve looked in the mirror, over and over, but I can’t say that I see it. All I see is the shape of my forehead and my lower lip, and I find them rather unattractive.

(to be continued)


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