Even though Raven missed her post yesterday, I’m still posting today.
Hello, everyone! Today’s post will likely be uncharacteristically serious. Sorry!
I’m not a writer. No, that’s not right. What I meant to say was that I’m not a very good writer. I’ve never finished an actual story. I force myself to write so that I can get some of my many ideas down, but I always stop. I’m bad at finishing things. I’ve never finished a story. I’ve only beaten a handful of video games.You get the picture. If I can’t write and if I don’t even enjoy it all that much, what business do I have doing NaNo? Why write if it’s not my passion?
Let me tell you a story. A close friend of mine, Michael, attempted NaNoWriMo during 9th grade (about 3 years ago). He failed miserably with roughly 5000 words. Of course, I did what any good friend would do and teased him about it. He wasn’t much of a writer either. Math/science/computers. It’s weird how some of the most unlikely people have secret writing passions. I don’t have a passion for writing.
Michael died last September. He just randomly died in his sleep. No, that’s not right. What I meant to say was that he died of a drug overdose. See, he liked this one girl. She was a pot-smoker, but that’s not that bad, as far as illegal drugs go. He fell in with the wrong crowd. He started partying. He started drinking. He started smoking weed. One night, he decided to try some of his grandma’s painkillers. It’s the kind of situation you always hear about. “I can get high off of this. People die, but it won’t happen to me.” It happened to him. He died. I think I’m the only one who says that. We don’t really talk about him anymore. Whenever his name comes up, the atmosphere gets all melancholy. And it should. He was a great guy. Funny. Nice. So nice. Extremely intelligent. He was going to do great things. One stupid mistake. No, that’s not right. One stupid rush of hormones, resulting in a snowball effect of stupid mistakes, culminating in one very stupid mistake.
I got the call from his best friend, another close friend of mine. I thought he was playing a prank on me. I hung up, laughing. After a few minutes, I got this weird feeling. What if he wasn’t kidding. I went downstairs. Then we got another call from a mutual friend’s mom. My mom said “Oh my God! That’s terrible! Do you know how it happened?” and other such things. I knew. I started shaking. My parents tried to comfort me. It didn’t work. I didn’t cry until later. I went on facebook and looked at all of the semi-heartfelt “R.I.P.” posts from friends, acquaintances, and people he and I both disliked. I cried. All night. Well, I had a friend over, so I stopped and I went back downstairs. He cried later too. I called the friends who didn’t know earlier that afternoon. We were all pretty shaken up.
The funerals, both of them (private and public), were rough.
I decided to do NaNo in his honor. I roped another friend into it. Another math/science guy. He finished. I got to 3600-some. I cried after that. I failed Michael. I failed my friends. I failed myself. I blamed it on the schoolwork.
The rest of junior year was terrible. I was depressed and suicidal for all of it. I think I’m better now.
I’m going to do it this year. I’m going to win. I’m not a failure. I’m going to do all of the things that Michael never had a chance to do. I want to do them for him. In his honor. I don’t believe in God or Heaven or any of that stuff, so it’s not like he’ll be watching me. He’s dead. I’ll keep him in my mind. I’ll remember all of the funny things he did. It seems like I can’t even bring those up anymore. It’s like our friend has become a taboo subject.
Every day in chemistry (the only class we had together), he stole my calculator and hacked it to put a virus on it so I had to take the batteries out and reset it.
One day during the winter, he stole my coat (I never used my locker) and wore it around. I’m short. He was really tall. It was several sizes too small, but he acted like nothing was out of the ordinary.
We were at my house with some friends and we got hungry. We went to Wendy’s. He wrote my name on the table in salt and blamed it on me.
He always teased me for a nasty rumor that some kids spread about me. I thought he believed it.
After he died, I found out that any time someone mentioned it, he would instantly defend me and tell them to shut up.
Sorry, it took me this long to start crying again.
The sad music I’m listening to helps. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQzgI6xJEH0
Anyway, I’m going to write a novel. My ideas will finally become something concrete. After that, I don’t have to write anymore.
I’ll do it, not just for Michael, but for myself too. I need to prove that I can do it. I won’t fail a second time.