Warning 18+, intended for adults only. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are all products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, photocopied, printed, or uploaded or downloaded onto other devices. This sample is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
As I walked down the hallway towards Mrs Meedu’s office, I didn’t know what to expect. I hated dropping in on anyone unannounced, hell maybe I should have made an appointment to see her. Now that would have been more professional of me and would have made a better impression. Instead, and knowing my luck, I’m probably going to catch her off guard while she’s having lunch or something. I can picture her now, in my mind’s cyclop eye, turning around and having a big piece of lettuce wedged in her teeth.
I should just turn around now before I get to her door, which in all likelihood will be open. Once I round the next corner, she could see me from her office out in the hallway and by then it would be too late to retreat without some loss of dignity or self-respect. I wasn’t afraid to face her, just intimidated, for Mrs. Meedu was the best known writer in the valley, and here I was a nerdy, geeky, first year university student who couldn’t write my way out of a paper-bag.
What brought me here to this confluence of time and space, was this lofty goal of mine- and I don’t know exactly where this idea came from-to be the best writer in the county. I did think my writing was that good, a product of being both naive and stupid. I can make it, I would say over and over in my head so often that I came to believe I had made it.
If only I could get through the next couple of minutes and the obtuse construct of introductions that would undoubtedly frame my interaction with Mrs. Meedu. You see I was a classic introvert and avoided these kind of situations. In my final year of high school, I came to realize I would rather stay at home writing, playing video games, or masturbating to my father’s porn collection he kept handy over the door inside his unfinished closet. I would consciously avoid situations where I had to go outside and do things that involved interacting with other people by pretending I wasn’t feeling well.
In my final year, I stopped seeing my friends altogether. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I had lost the skill to make friends and the interest to work at keeping them. I would come home from school and head straight for my room. My parents, rightly so, were afraid I was suicidal. I gave them good reason to think this, because every time they asked if everything was ok, “are you ok honey?” my mom would ask, I would tell them to fuck right off. This would shock them into silence. One time my dad threatened to take away all driving privileges I had to the family car- a particularly ugly plum colored Dodge Dynasty, I used to refer to as the Die-Nasty. I told him if he tried to take away the car, that I would shit on his bed. He backed off. My parents never swore, beyond the odd “shit” here and there which usually was only reserved for when my father rapped his knuckles after a wrench slipped, or a knife rolled the wrong way off a potato. I found the more shocking I was with my colorful use of language, the easier it was to just have them leave me alone.
I wasn’t particularly good at talking with people. I was always afraid they would find out my secret-that I was an introvert and so the cycle would continue. Generally most people, like my own parents, thought I was strange, I mean what guy teenager carries around a journal to write in. While my friends would be talking about who was going to win the super-bowl, I would be listening in just to find out who was playing so I could fake a conversation later just in case I had to make some meaningless conversation with someone.
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