stories

It's kind of a weird thing for me to be writing about myself and my life, because I'm not actually that good of a storyteller. I have friends who can take any minor episode from their life and turn it into an absolutely hilarious story--I could be hearing about how so-and-so went to buy juice at the corner store, where NOTHING HAPPENED, and I'm still laughing so hard I pee a little. If I were to recount a similar moment in MY life, it would go something like..."well, we were out of juice, so I had to head over to the corner store and get some, so now there's juice in the fridge." Wonk. It totally runs in the family, though. My mom has the ability to take a perfectly good story and talk circles around the point until I want to punch myself in the eyeballs, and right as I'm clenching my fists to do it, she ALWAYS goes "well anyway, to make a long story short..." and I die a little on the inside. I love her, I really do--she's just bad at stories.

You know what's even worse than bad stories? DREAM STORIES. It's like the worst possible category of you-had-to-be-there story. Not only were you not there, IT NEVER HAPPENED. There are a few exceptions, these being the truly bizarre or the truly great. Example: "Last night I dreamed I was making out with Ron Weasley, but then it turned out that he was a jar of alfredo sauce." True story, copyright Amanda.

I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make, except that my life isn't very exciting, but I'd like to learn to write about it as if it were. Hence the blog. At the very least, I'll try not to make anyone punch themselves in the face. And that's all I can hope for.