And for tonight's insomnia session...
One of my best friends has started writing a quasi-fictional account of our years spent together at a certain institution (haha no...a school...) and has been sharing the chapters with me as she writes. I have to say, the experiences we had in real life were often dramatic enough to fill volumes and volumes of NON-FICTION books, but her more literary take on the scenes makes for much more pleasant reading, haha. Someday I promised her I'd help her publish it somehow (along with certain writings about my experiences I'd like to publish...not necessarily in the same laughable tone...hah) but for now I thought I'd share a brief excerpt where she introduces the fictional version of me. The character's name is Samantha, and the description just cracks me up. Only PARTS of it are based on reality and keep in mind it is FICTION so things have been exaggerated (ah the benefits of the excuse of fiction) but have a laugh:
The scene, moving into our dorm room. The narrator, my friend, a nervous newcomer to the school.
The first thing Sam does, after introducing herself, is pin up a large black and white poster of Times Square. Even sporting the harsh steel and neon lights of New York City, the wall now looks less blank, less like a place we have never before seen and more like a place we could live. I hastily procure a single photograph from a shoebox and secure it on the wall next to my bed with a thumbtack. The round brown eyes of my German Sheppard look back at me. There, I am no longer living in a hospital room.
As I tack photograph after photograph to my wall, frantically turning the white into a hopelessly New Mexican collage, Sam spreads a multitude of homemade blankets across her previously empty bed. There are all kinds: crocheted and knitted, purple and green and red, striped and solid and lacey. She’s a whirlwind of unpacking, clearly experienced at the task.
“This isn’t your first year here?” I ask. She laughs.
“Not at all. I graduate in the spring.”
I stare at her. She can’t be more than a year older than myself.
“But, you look too young to graduate– I mean¬¬¬¬–”
“That’s ‘cause I am too young to graduate. I turned sixteen last month.”
“Skipped a few grades, that’s all. I’m a fast worker…not really cut out for this high school crap.”
She goes back to unpacking. Watching, I fully believe that she is a fast worker. I find I am now the one hugging my knees to my chest, watching in awe. Sweaters fly neatly into drawers, books onto shelves, and at least two hundred hairpins into a heart shaped metal box on her dresser.
Finally, she produces three things from her handbag: a diet coke, a jar of peanut butter, and a plastic spoon.
“I’m a health freak.” Sam says, plopping down on her bed.
I like her immediately.
Maybe it's not as funny if you don't know me, or us, or the situation...but someday hopefully you'll get to read the full version and understand everything. Too funny.