Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Thecard]

Well, I decided I've complained about my life enough, I may as well make a thread about it.  And since I don't really have anyone in real life that cares, I might as well talk about what's going on here.  I'm not really sure where this goes, I guess, but I don't mean for it to start any discussions.  It's more of a way to vent, I suppose.  And maybe y'all will have some handy advice for me.  But here goes, I suppose.
Eh.  This shit took a solid hour to write.  I didn't even think 'bout it, either.  I dunno where all that time goes when I write, but that's normal, considering.

Also, a warnin'.  When I write like this, I tend to write the way I talk.  Apostrophes fucking everywhere.
I'm currently writing this at two in the morning.  I couldn't sleep.  Like most nights.
I get too busy thinking of my past, for one thing.  Another, my ADD runs rampant in the streets of my mind, hijacking thought trains and holding up memory banks.  It makes me wonder, ya know?

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of the unfortunates.  Not one of the people the world has royally fucked over, just for bein' born.  Naw, I screwed myself, all by myself.  Ain't nobody's fault but mine.

I mean, I wasn't born to a rich family, but we did well.  My dad was a controller, which pretty much meant he was the head accountant.  He got his master's degree a when I was in maybe third grade.  Next company he was CFO, or chief financial officer.  It was pretty much the same job though.  He really is the only reason the company he's with now is still standing on its feet.  He used to work in a bank, so he's got practical experience there.
My mom quit teaching after she had her first kid, but she didn't need to work.
We never wanted for any food, and we had two computers and two televisions.  We rented a DVR player when those came out.  My brother, sister, and I played with Legos a lot too.

Oh, but I haven't talked much about them.  I'm the youngest, and my brother is the oldest.  He's into pretty much anything drivable or flyable.  He had a flight sim hooked up in his room, and he ran it in real time.  Had all kinds of pedals and shit too.  I truly think he could've flown a plane when he was twelve, if he had to.  My sister, she's the middle child, but she ain't like most middle kids.  She's loud and proud, and if you didn't like her attitude you could get bent.  We found out she had some disability that inhibited her ability to control herself, but that wasn't 'til our second life. 
'Course, I call it our second life, but it don't feel like second anything.  We all look back on our old house in California, on the other coast, and we don't think of it as being part of our lives.  Kinda funny, really.  We always thought our old life was gonna be our only one, that we would never move.  But we did, and I'm pretty fucking glad about it.

And, of course, we have the star of the show: Me.
I was one of maybe ten other white kids, counting my siblings in that total, at my grade school.  But I didn't see any of 'em different for that.  Never really noticed it, and I still only do if I'm looking in my yearbook.  Now, none of 'em were any bright shining lights if ya get my drift.  No one really cared 'bout reading, 'cept me.  I fucking loved to read books.
Here's the catch though: I only loved them 'cause they weren't people!  Ain't that a laugh?  I fucking hated them!  All of 'em!  And without one damn reason, too!  I still don't fucking know why I loathed their guts, I just did!  An' it wasn't a skin thing, 'fore any of y'all suggest that.  'Cause I hated the scarce majorities I knew too!  I just couldn't stand fuckin' people.

I sat my fat ass on a barred bench and read.  I read the shit outta those books.  Fuckin' first Potter book in a week when I was in second fuckin' grade.  I read about fifty o' those Magic Tree House books in two months.  I know that 'cause our teacher assigned that many to us for the school year, and I did it in the first fucking month an' a half.  'Bout half the kids didn't even finish.

But I wasn't like ol' Scrooge, reading 'cause I wanted friends.  I said "to hell with friends!"  I read to get away from people, not to find more o' the fuckers!  I didn't get no satisfaction outta them, I got satisfaction outta being able to distance myself from people I knew!
'Cause believe you me, it wasn't no fault of their own.  They tried.  They actually fucking tried to be friend with me!  There would always be someone trying to strike up conversation, or get me to play.  I just ignored them.  Eventually, I got to be part of the scenery.  I swear, they probably found that fucking seat by looking for my fat ass, then looking down a few feet.

So when people talk about how their past sucked, I got nothing to contribute.  I fucked myself over royally.  Guess that's a reason why I made this thread, 'cause there ain't no place for it.  I never met anyone who'd done the same.  I've met people who've been fucked over, but it's always been nature, or luck, or God doin' the fucking.  Never themselves.

Guess it's kinda cheesy, but it's been this wonderful state of Virginia that's warmed me up.  Well, the people, anyhow.  But that's a topic for later, if y'all wanna hear it.
Anyway, I s'pose that's the basics.  I don't really know if this is the place for it, and I don't know if any of y'all wanna hear any more.  You may not even have wanted to hear what I've had to say so far.  I don't blame you, if that's your attitude.  I know I sure don't like it.

But it gets better, trust me.  It don't have a happy ending, with rainbows and unicorns an' shit, but it gets happier.
If, uh, y'all wanna hear more, I'll put some more of my sorry-ass life up here.  I only told y'all the basics, there's a few more layers to the story I just read off.  There was more to me than just pure-fucking-hatred for my fellow man, but not much else in my noggin.

Tell you what.  If anyone wants me to go on, or elaborate, I will.  Otherwise, I'll just move onward in time.
An' I hope I didn't bore ya.

[javierpwn]

I don't like the company of most people either, as I have decently unrelatable interests in real life, but I still manage to have a few friends and acquaintances. Reading is pretty easy for me, I like to finish books in a single day.

Nice to see someone with a decently relate able story

[Thecard]

Well, now that I'm back at my computer, I s'pose I'll continue.  I've really just given the foundation of the story, as some of you may be dismayed to hear.  I'm going to try to start at the beginning, but do try to bear with me if I deviate.
I was born in Whittier Area Hospital.  The doctor prayed over me after I was born.  They don't normally do that, as I'm sure you'd expect.  I was, as I've said, the youngest of three, and the second boy.
I was a quiet child, really.  The kind of quiet that would have sent my parents scrambling for some kind of doctor, had I been their first or even second child.  I didn't talk 'til I was four, and even then I hesitate to call it talking.  I cut off the endings of words, and sometimes the roots too.  No one understood me 'cept my sister, Hannah.  Somehow, she always knew what I had meant.  I guess we've always been close, closer than anyone else in our family.  'Course, she was kind of a major bitch way back then.
I went to speech therapy for quite a while.  I went in during preschool, and only got out after the fifth grade.  Even then, it was just because I was moving and Virginia has different policies for speech defects.
So there I was.  Typically, I was the only one with the right amount of chromosomes, teeth, or brain cells.  And all the others "graduated."  But I didn't.  Good ol' Andrew got to stay in speech therapy until he literally could not go any more.  Really fucks with you, that does.

And my handwriting, oh God my handwriting.  Turns out, I was left-handed the whole time.  Ain't that a hoot.  Writing with my wrong hand for 'bout fifteen fucking years.  Obviously, my penmanship never progressed beyond the first grade.

And it also turns out I have ADD.  When we had to do "time tests" (a hundred or so quick math problems, in some time frame or other) I never completed one, until about fourth or fifth grade, and that one was made for second graders.  Turns out, my brain literally couldn't handle that many things.  Also explains why I'd get all cross-eyed doing word searches.

Needless to say, I was not the teacher's pet.  They wanted a book read, oh, sure I'd read the fuck outta that book.  I'd take that book and read it's fucking words out 'til it was just a spine.  -But then I had to write about it- Well fuck.  That ain't gonna happen in a satisfactory manner.  And if they can't read it, then I have to.  With my mangled fucking mouth.  Wunderbar.

So, I had my share of shitty teachers.  In second grade, I had a teacher who actually crumpled up and threw away my papers if they weren't neat enough.  Yeah.  I was boned.
In third grade, the teacher was some hip bitch who was all-fucking-that.  She made fun of me, a couple of times.  For my speech, for my penmanship, and such.  Once, she yelled at me because she couldn't believe I had done my homework all by myself (I did, by the way).
I don't remember her very well, but apparently my second grade teacher didn't like me either.  She kept complaining about me to my mom or something.
I guess it would be akin to lying if I said I never had any friends.  In first grade, I was in a group.  Zach was the leader, Danny and I were a couple followers, and there was a girl named Katrina who loved dragons, but I don't remember much else about her, since I never talked to her.
But between then and second grade, Zach found himself a better friend, and Danny found himself back in the first grade.  Again, can't tell ya anything 'bout Katrina, 'cause I never really knew her.  But to put it short, I was out, and some guy named Golias or somethin' was in.
After that, I meant some guy named Ernie, but he moved away right-quick.  I remember what might be my only fond memory of that damned place.  Us, sitting underneath a big red slide, sharing knock-knock jokes.  It's where I got my appreciation for humor, I think.
Then there was another kid, this one a half-native and a half-black.  I gotta say black 'cause I don't rightly know where that half comes from, only I don't think it was from Africa.  He was a bit of an oddball though.  Not really a bad apple like Zach was, but not quite all there, ya know?  We only spoke in class for some reason.  All I remember 'bout him is that he scratched off the word "negro" from all the crayons and pencils he saw, 'cause it offended him.
Other than them I had my books.  My fucking books.  Now, I can hardly read a couple pages without feeling that sour nostalgia that makes me wanna tear my fucking head off.
There wasn't much else.  Just day after day of absolutely loathing the motherfucking shit outta everyone else while I turned pages.  My parents were going to send me to some private school.  Either Edwards, which was practically the fucking air force base--boys and girls uniformed up to their eyeballs--or a private Christian school.  I woulda hated both, let me tell you.  Either the fucking authority breathing down your throat, or a bunch'a naive little pricks whose only wish in life was that all gay people had AIDs.
But hell, if all good things must come to an end, I s'pose a few shitty things gotta end too.  We moved from sunny ol' hell where it's one-ten in the shade to cool Virginny, where the souls of the damned aren't screaming at you day and night.  There were fucking stars too, believe you me, there were more stars my first day out in the country than there have been in the rest of my whole damnable life.  I lost myself up there, in the stars.  I'm not really sure if all of me came down after all those nights of gazing.  I can only hope to God that I did, but he hasn't given me any reassuring answers.


Alright then, well that's quite a big fuckin' chunk, ain't it?  Still isn't all, though.  I s'pose you can take a boy outta hell, but good luck gettin' the hell outta the boy.

But I think... I think something must have done it.  I'm not entirely sure what it was, or when it happened, and I don't think it's all happened yet.  But... I think I'm getting somewhere.  Somewhere good, somewhere that isn't that fucking seat on the playground.

If y'all want to hear more, I'd like it if you'd say so.  I do realize my language might be a bit, er, crude, but I don't regret a single word I've said yet.  I just hope I'm entertaining someone with this.

[Trapezohedron]

Well, please continue, Mr. Card.

Much as I can't relate to your story, I'm still interested in knowing the full thing, assuming you're still willing to elaborate on that story with a stranger who can't relate to your life.

[Thecard]

I'll be perfectly honest and tell ya right here that I have trouble thinking of this as somethin' people can relate to.  Guess it's 'cause I've never met anyone who's fucked themselves the way I have, and told me about it.  As I said though, it does go on, and it does get, for lack of a more appropriate word, better.

But that's something I'll talk about later.  It's hard enough having to think about my past this early in the morn.

[Trapezohedron]

No pressures, bud. Take it at your own pace.

[Shadowgandor]

It's been an interesting read so far and I'd like to hear the rest of it as well, if you wouldn't mind sharing

[Firelordsky]

Your teachers seem like my second grade teachers. Except they weren't angry with my horrid handwriting and constant stuttering, they were actually angry about the quality of my desk which was pretty well off compared to the other desks around mine. But, my desk was, unfortunately, on the edge and she always saw the innards of my desk, and it got to the point where she would just pour out the contents of my desk. Luckily, there was that guy that kept on singing random songs in a horrible voice, and soon enough the teacher isolated him from everyone else and told him to shut up a bunch of times.

[javierpwn]

Your teachers seem like my second grade teachers. Except they weren't angry with my horrid handwriting and constant stuttering, they were actually angry about the quality of my desk which was pretty well off compared to the other desks around mine. But, my desk was, unfortunately, on the edge and she always saw the innards of my desk, and it got to the point where she would just pour out the contents of my desk. Luckily, there was that guy that kept on singing random songs in a horrible voice, and soon enough the teacher isolated him from everyone else and told him to shut up a bunch of times.

that was more like 3rd grade for me, cursive nazis YOU HAD TO KNOW HOW TO WRITE IN CURSIVE!! My teacher did give me the entire NARNIA COLLECTION though, pretty weird series, with a pretty strange ending.....

2nd grade, nothing ever happened, except storyline.....

[inteuniso]

Well, fuck. Hello, me, how have you been?

You see, I'm left-handed myself. I also happened to love books as a kid. Because they weren't people.

You know why? Because people don't understand. You see, we live in a right-handed world. A world where the majority of objects cannot be used with one hand or another, but are made for the right hand. So you adapt. And you figure out, oh, that's how you use it with the left hand. We have to adapt, you and me.

Adaptability is the greatest trait a human, or any biological organism, can have. About 10% of the human population is left-handed, but they tend to be very good at whatever they choose to do, should they choose to do it. Napoleon? Left-handed. Left us with everyone driving on the right side of the road: puts right-handers at a disadvantage, but left-handers love it. They don't know why, but here's the reason: It's natural to us. It puts us at an advantage.

You see, you've been put at a handicap your entire life. And you have to accept that. You have to learn things... a different way. Speech therapy? Never worked. Why? They're teaching you the wrong way. Words? Well, you can form them in your mind just right. You just can't get your mind to make it come out of your mouth the same way.

That's why, when you write, well you just love to write things in your own accent. It's your voice, finally coming out of your head, in a way other people can understand. They can understand what you're saying. Why, if only you could do that in real life. You can, and you did.

Life is not easy for us left-handers. Coming from a rich family, you don't have to worry about basic fears. Fears such as starvation, being alone, fear of death from strangers. Your parents protected you. Problem is, they don't know how to teach you.

You need someone who can teach you the way you need to learn. You know how to learn from books, because you're teaching yourself the knowledge. It's very handy.

You see, everyone HAS been trying to look out for you? That 'hip' teacher? She was trying to help you, consciously or unconsciously. She was pestering you to stop doing these societal oddities, these unacceptable things. She did it, by telling you not to do it. By bullying you. Sometimes, it works. The message gets across. But you and I, we're different. We're left-handed. Right-brain dominant, you see. We use our left hemisphere, we just prefer the right. Language? Turns out, right-handed people and left-handed people learn language differently. I happened to learn Chinese at a young age, which doesn't place as much emphasis on abstract concepts as letters forming words. Their words are pictures, incredibly simplified pictures, but still pictures. More complex word? symbols assembled together. Two characters? A phrase. Multiple characters? A sentence.

A single word can convey a thousand meanings. In Chinese, that is incredibly true.

You see, You and I have the same damned problem. We learn differently. But I, I was subjected to a better education. And thus, brilliant. I see the world differently. I can type, without looking at the keyboard. I can imagine the keys. No need to look, to constantly refresh my mind on where the keys are. I'm looking at The Incredibles box now.

You see, if only someone had taught you differently, had shown you that there were in fact multiple ways to learn, you would look upon authority with a bit more grace. But, in fact, authority has the capacity of humans. Which means they can be wise. They can be smart. They can also be incredibly dense.

Enjoy the south. Enjoy Virginia. It's a beautiful state, and southern people are more in tune with the world than the northerners. They have a history of suffering.

Joy is wonderful. There is no emotion better than happiness. Pain, suffering, hardship. Those are what give joy, happiness, glee such definition.

I hope you will one day learn much about the world, card. You have a brilliant mind, a left-handed mind. A mind that can see everything in a different way, naturally. Use it to your advantage.

[javierpwn]

I would like to state I'm right handed and proud....
And Hispanic
Who lives in the south
And is middle class
I see the world truthfully as it is, and how adults in my life just try to encourage me to be a better person, and do things correctly as they should be done
The only thing I hated was CURSIVE!!!! Completely useless!

[Tsuchigumo550]

I'm much the same way, but... different. Reverse. I used to be a bookworm who didn't actively seek people out, but people came to me, and we got along. That's the whole bit. I was a people person, I just never knew where to start. I say "was".

Recently I've just wanted people to leave me the hell alone. Not everyone, mind you, but the people who have been in my life the longest are the people I want the least to do with. I personally believed it just to be a rift between me and others, because all i seem to get out of the ones around me I find myself less and less tolerable of are commands, orders, and authority. Always. Even if I bow down and keep going, there's never a good word, it's always "what I need to do" or "should have done" and not only does that piss me off, but the fact that it was the only thing I ever heard from people around me.

My friends and I had a much different relationship. I used to be a useless wheel, hanging on by a thread. Now, I fit in very well by no change of my own. I couldn't be happier when around my friends, just in the way we talk.

It's amazing. People talk about something that dosen't mean anything, and dosen't accomplish anything, and it can evoke apathetic anger or bliss. My family has been evoking nothing but the prior, and it's a strange thing indeed.