My Childhood was Subpar (Part 2)

The point in my life I’d like to zero in on is a combination in two in the previous post: Seventh and Eleventh Grades, but I’ll throw in Sixth Grade as well. Not only do they rhyme they have some to major importance to me, minus the last one.

My sixth grade year was terrible; barely had any friends, my teacher was a truly terrible person, my classmates sucked. I had (at most) three friends.  Though I can laugh about it now as that point in my life really shaped who I am today, I truly hated everyone around me. This is when I really took to reading. Books can’t taunt you and say you look like a tree today. Books also can’t steal some of your pizza rolls at lunch. Books, however, can cut you if you wrong them in any way. They are, how you say, about that life.

The next year, I decided to write my own books. The kind that you find in a second hand shop even though it was just released earlier that day. They were pretty bad is what I’m saying. My friends who I had forced to read my writings liked it enough to keep me from giving up. Writing in general got me out of taking notes as my then teacher wasn’t very competent with anything. (He was later demoted to fourth grade the next year, then let go the year following)

Writing was really my escape from reality. I could make my characters do whatever I felt like that day. Should I end a story with them falling down and up escalator? Why yes, I shall. And I did.

The third part in my trifecta of a pivotal moment was when Fifty Shades came out. Hearing the praises of such a work, I grew interested. Much to my dismay, I read about one fourth to one third of the first book and quit. How could something so terribly written become a best seller? When lines are repeated back to back with minor word changes, how can my AP English teacher go on about how great the trilogy is. The only thing that inspired me to go beyond what I’ve done now is that book. Hopefully, one day I’ll become ridiculously famous for actual well thought out story writing.

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