Another day, nothing spectacular. My life always seems to be that way. I hate that nothing extraordinary happens to me. Whatever I do, at best, seems to be above average. I hate those words. Seemingly complimentary, but once you hear them day after day, night after night, until there’s no need for anyone to say them, because by that point they echo throughout your head, they’re really mean, hateful words. No, you’re not average, we’ll admit it, but we’re sorry you’re just not special enough to be amazing. God! It drives me insane. After that, those words haunt you forever, until you doubt your own talents. Always second guessing, always unsure. Too scared to voice your opinions but hoping that one day someone will ask for them. It’s sometimes scary how two words can take over your entire being, but like it or not, it eventually dominates your life and way of thinking. Those two words control you.

By the time I entered high school, they almost did. I was fifteen (high school was 10-12 grade in my district because the school board (a) knew that by moving 9th grade into middle school and 6th grade into elementary school would keep the high school from being too crowded and (b) were to proud of their overachieving to split up the humongous district). I had this façade of confidence, sarcasm, and craziness. Ask anyone who knew me, they’d tell you I was one crazy girl. I could bounce with the bounciest of them, and I didn’t even need caffeine or sugar to do it (though those chocolate covered espresso beans sure do help), but it all was fake. Well, I did like to be crazy, but it was the only way I could fight my above average mindset. The more self-conscious I got, the more carefree I would have to appear. I was sarcastic too, but that was my dad's fault. He's had me reading David Eddings since I was twelve (I'm obsessed by the way) and at least one character in all of his books are amazingly sarcastic. I can't help if sarcasm floats out of my ears. But I had this lack of self-confidence like you wouldn’t believe, still do actually, but my closest confidants keep trying to help me get over it. The reason I’m telling you all this is simple, it’s part of the story. Duh, right? Well it is, a lot happened to me, and if you didn’t understand what I was when I started, you wouldn’t really get the significance of what happened to me by the end.

So I’m sure you’re all thinking. What the heck is this story about? Is this supposed to be interesting? I don’t care if this girl becomes the richest, most successful woman in history. And I’m sure you don’t. However, this is a work of fiction. I’m merely using myself to set it up. I do know me best. Most of these eventshaven’t really happened, and I wouldn’t dare ruin your fun by telling what’s true and what’s not. I can however, tell you this: This is a love story, one of those gushy, romantic tales that talks about what any girl wants, love. I don’t mean to scare off all the guys, but that’s what it is. While it does have its gushy moments, there is sarcasm, wit, obscure references (many to random indie rock bands and old British comedy shows that I won't explain) and lots of mocking (mostly of me). So please, don’t let me scare you away just yet, I’ve still got many more weird things up my sleeve.

Got you interested, didn’t I?