Incognito, Down the Rabbit Hole — Part 1
If I told you how many times I opened my computer to write down a story, you’d probably laugh at me.
Now here’s the deal. Any and every time I try to write something down, it’s born out of a different inspiration.
I don’t know what inspiration I have right now, but let’s hope I actually follow through with this one.
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You see, in life, existing with the mindset that any and everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, oftentimes appears to be the way to go.
However, when the “wrong” actually hits you, you’re never really prepared for it.
So, an absolute waste of confidence.
Most times, people go through the rabbit hole at least once in a lifetime. But have you met me?
I practically live in the rabbit hole and maybe experience reality once in a while.
“What kind of foolishness”? I know. Trust me.
I’m Valerie.
Probably not. Maybe that’s my alias, or maybe that’s what’s on my birth certificate. I don’t know, we’ll see.
I work a 9–5 job. So, yes. I have a routine.
I also probably have a terminal health condition, but I don’t know for sure. I’m too scared to go to the hospital to find out.
I constantly try to convince myself that I’m probably too fat on the inside, that’s why I have these muscle spasms. It’s been three years.
Don’t worry. I’m not dying yet. I have things to do. Death can wait.
Is telling this story in first-person narrative working for you? Would you like me to switch it up to third-person?
First-person narrative good? Okay!
As you keep reading, you’ll probably think I’m an alcoholic.
Well, yes, I am, but not on purpose.
I’m dating a crack head. In our shoe box apartment. Now, I love this fool, but he can do better.
You’re probably thinking, “are you doing better”?
I’m not poor, I just don’t have access to all my money. Yet.
Ridiculous. Isn’t it? That’s something every poor person says.
The thing is, being “poor”, is relative.
But we’ll get to that. Eventually.
I love sex. Its concept is thrilling and bodacious.
I love to feel my pulse rise as my heart races from the constant pounding and thrusting.
Why? Well, not because it’s particularly enjoyable, but that’s the only time I get to “exercise” You know, sweat, burn those calories.
You see, everyone has it a little more easy or difficult than the other person.
I grew up in foster care where my foster dad cut me with his pocket knife whenever he wanted to rape me.
If I took off my shirt to show you my scars, you’d be frightened.
But don’t be. It’ll make a fascinating story for my kids. If I have any.
I could have been pregnant so many times, but I never am. Maybe I’m just lucky, or probably infertile.
Who knows?
When I have sex with my boyfriend, I make him cut me. Just a little. The sensation I get from the cuts make me excited.
He’s retarded for agreeing to it, but that’s okay, I like it.
Weird right? It’s probably the PTSD from being molested at 14 by a psychopath.
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Remember what I said about Valerie being my alias?
Well, something like that for sure. When my mom gave birth to me, she didn’t have any use for me, maybe I was a mistake child.
I can’t help but wonder. Was she a preacher’s daughter, that had a baby out of wedlock, so she had to give me away? Actually, throw me away.
Maybe she was a sex worker? I don’t know. I don’t care either.
I work for a newspaper, as a reporter.
From the sound of that, it’s probably obvious that I don’t have a social life.
Believe it or not, I’m really good at job. Maybe it’s all that time I spent in a correctional facility that changed my perspective of life.
Don’t worry, I didn’t kill anyone. I was “framed”. I did stab him though.
Six times.
However, he wasn’t dead when I left him. Maybe he bled out.
Relax… he deserved it. That was my foster father, Bill.
May his soul, not rest in peace.
