Every writer probably has some sort of a sob story. Mine is typical –the popular kids didn’t love me, I didn’t become semi-pretty until I was in my 20s, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard it before. More than that though, I’ve always been a bit different. Whether at school or even at home, I was always more content to create my own little world rather than live in the so-called ‘real’ one and back then, my focus was frequently turned toward what I couldn’t do. I couldn’t be student body president. I couldn’t be super popular. I couldn’t fly just because I built myself a cape using a hefty bag and pink ribbon.
So what about now? Is this one of those shitty motivational speeches about how I overcame my awkwardness and became a super-awesome, popular adult? Yeah, no. While I am super awesome, I’m still just me… kinda awkward, more at home with words on a page than with most people, just a little bit… different.
My only regret? It’s taken me 25+ years to figure out that if this is ‘different,’ I don’t want to be ‘normal.’