#liquid writes

It's been a whole year since the day my life changed forever. I went from someone who has everything, two loving parents who balanced each other out, a complete lack of financial worry, a place to sleep with moderate privacy and a dad who I could always count on for literally anything. Today, I lay here, on the bed that once was his, 14,000 dollars deep in debt, floundering, clinging to the last few bits of wisdom I can remember about how to run a household while my mother runs around like an angry chicken with her head cut off.

Life changes so quickly and you really can't make plans or they get spit right into your face. If you had asked me on June 23rd of 2019 what I would be doing today? I would have said I'd be attending school again, still still my old car and taking my dad to the movies with whatever small amount of money I was making at whatever menial job I took to survive life away from this house.

Every future I imagined as a child and as a teen had me living this life where dad and I hung out, watching movies, going out to eat and trading off on who paid. Eventually, he move in with me and would never have to worry about anything other than what he wanted to watch on TV or what new thing he might find at the 99 cent store.

Yet, here I am. I got stuck with the parent I hoped God would take first. She's the anxious one. She's the one who was barely functioning even before all this and she's the selfish one. The one who keeps asking me to be grateful for her lying to my dad so she could have me. The one who never particularly wanted me, she wanted the IDEA of me, not the reality. The one who had me believing that the God of love could hate me because of thoughts I could not control and for emotions that I never could grasp. This was not the future I wanted and I'm not seeing what could make it better.

It's hurts that he's not here.

We went out, visited him, cleaned up his tombstone and sat for a while reminiscing. It didn't hurt a bad as the first time but it was still hard to breathe and I know the mask had nothing to do with that.

Three days from now, it'll be good one year anniversary. One whole year of feeling vulnerable. One year of no physical contact with him. One year of having those passing "I should tell dad..." moments and having the emotion bitch slap me across the face. Dad gone, and my mom spent her moment of remembrance saying she's glad God changed my heart so I could finally her along with her (not accurate, I'm just better at faking it because she's the shitty parent but she's also the last parent I have).

To begin, I was always told that "as a girl" my job is to find a husband, procreate and spend my life raising these kids and serving this husband. I never like that view point. What I observed from my parents marriage was that mataste is two people choosing to live together, making an effort to acknowledge the hard work they do to keep their lives going and listening to each other and doing their best to fill needs. My dad never take about being in love with my mom (matter of fact he told me he stayed with her because of us, I was six) yet I feel like he did eventually for her and did his best to treat her with love and respect while still keeping some fun in his life.

For the longest I thought I wanted that. I sort of do, but it's not my goal and it's not my job. I've heard friends talk about relationships like that's all that makes them happy and has ever made them happy. I've heard them talk about how sex is great in these relationships. Some of the single ones talk about how they just wish someone would touch them. How an SO would make them feel complete. I used to think that but I don't think I feel that anymore. I haven't felt that since before my dad's passing.

I used to think a romantic relationship would bring me a person who would care about me, spend time with me and spoil me. Here's the thing, I have that, I had that with my dad spoiling me and it turns out my friends do that too. Since quarantine I've had friends who check on me literally every day. Friends who bring me food so I don't have to risk my health. Friends who I miss being affectionate with because we cuddle. Friends who heard what I wanted and chose to get out for me because I'm broke. I'm not even that interested in sex either so I think I'm set.

I'm not alone, I don't need romance, I just need to know that I'm loved and, if I really look at how my friends are with me, I can easily see that I am.

I feel like I get really nervous about the stuff I'm trying to make. Like, I like to draw, I like to write, I like to create and I still remember being encouraged to try and pursue these things because people have told me I'm good at it. However, I've always seen myself as a creative thief. Like, I look at existing things and put my own twist to it. Honestly, I consume so much content in various forms that it makes logical sense that I would integrate it into my creative process. I just never felt like anything I do is worth much, I guess. I wrote 30 pages of a story 10 years ago, it was ok but the character was recycled into a different story and now he's pretty much unusable. In college, I wrote a snippet of a scene from a world that took over a decade to build but that too was kinda taken from every angsty torture scene I'd ever watched (it was in spanish too so I think my teacher might have been more impressed that I managed to tell a story in a language I rarely used to write). Now, working on narration styles and simultaneously trying to build two other worlds, I feel like I genuinely don't have any story with telling, or at least I don't have the talent or skill to express it how I want it to be expressed.

I guess it comes from being visual, I watch my characters like one would watch a movie. A big part of me wants to go into pain-staking detail about where they are, what they're thinking and why they are reacting the way they do and writing is not the best medium for that. Yet also, I can't really draw, I'm getting better at faces, and one of my friends has been really helping me with tips and looking at my work but I'm a long way from having the ability to translate what I see into anything substancial.

I don't have good outlets for my thoughts so I'm coming to the point where I'm starting to wonder why I even bother. I had dreams of being a writer as a kid, to come up with stories I had never seen before. Then, in high school, I dreamed of being a comic artist and producing characters so beloved people would want to know everything about them or even dress up as them. Now at 28, having come to this conclusion, I just, feel like.... I don't know, like I was never cut out for more then just being mediocre and keeping these things to myself. Like they're kind of an embarrassment. An unemployed 28 year old who can't produce anything to save their life. I don't know, I just don't feel great.

-“Merrick, why are you dripping wet?” he asked. “Because Oceans are wet?”

-I opened my mouth, “don’t say you’re sorry again.” I closed my mouth.

- “I love you, go away now”

-Jason had started work on an elaborate plot to get rid of her; it looked like something Wile E. Coyote would come up with but ultimately was unnecessary...

-“You have class in the morning, and though I, a near professional insomniac, will be able to function tomorrow, you might not do as well.”

-However, he could either follow the wall to the gate and walk out like a rational human or he could take the shortcut and get out as quickly as possible before anyone could catch sight of him. He chose the latter option. 

-...given how much his feet were aching after walking all day, having them chewed off now seemed like a wonderful idea.