To start things off, I'm not going to tell you if this is a true story. I'm one who believes that the reader should make decisions for themselves. So, believe me or not, I don't care. What I do care about is that you read this book and you have an opinion about it. Criticism, constructive or not, is my favorite thing ever.
So, this is the prologue right? I basically just write a backstory, correct? I don't like to admit it, but I am a literature nerd. That's basically all I have ever cared about reading was my thing. Still is. I may know how to read, but I can't write. You know, I try to write my memoirs but I am handicapped in the one attribute you need to do so; writing skills. God damn.
Well, let's see here. I was born in Hartford, Connecticut, I lived in Lebanon in the first month of my then aimless existence (I call the years of my infancy aimless because all I lived for was eating and sleeping. Honestly, that all I live for now, so I suppose my current existence is aimlessly existed, isn't it?). My family left for Manchester a month after I was born. We lived in a nice little duplex. My dad was, to say the least, a drinker. He vicariously lived through drinking. You could his existence was aimless as well.
My mother used to drink but she quit, and that is what let to their inevitable divorce (I say inevitable because most marriages end in divorce. I suppose the concept of marriage is aimless as well, but only so much so. It is aimless, but not fruitless.). I was ten years old. My mother eventually (and inevitably) found new love in a guy we had met before, and particularly liked, but he soon became a sore sight. He was a clean freak and always told me to clean up anything he deemed unsightly. Even if the mess was not mine.
After a short four years, my mother and I decided he needed to go, and we kicked him out. I am not entirely sure where he is now, but he has not tried to contact us. We lived alone after that, my mother, my brother and my sister and I. I lived with my father on weekends. My brother moved out when he was twenty-one. I was a silent, anxiety-ridden and depressed 17 year old spent a lot of his time at home. That's all I had ever done. My whole adolescence spent holed up in a room. What a god damned waste. My depression had led me to believe I was living life wrong, by doing nothing. I had spent a good seven years doing nothing with my life, spending little to no time with my family. I realized I had to change all that.
One day, when I was eighteen, I left. To prevent prevention, I left in the early morning, leaving a note and swiping a great big atlas. The note read:
Mom, you may have noticed my absence. I don't believe you are going to be convenienced by what I have to say, but, here it goes. I am leaving. Not out of hate, not out of selfish folly, but out of sheer boredom. God knows I love you, but I think it is about time I was going my own way, and be able to find excitement in the world. But don't worry. One day I shall come back. Don't be sad don't be angry, just be happy I'm finally doing something with my life.
"Just go forward in all your beliefs, and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine," the great William Hartnell said.
Thank you, mom. Thank you so much for birthing me and good luck in all your future endeavors. XOXO