Choppy Choppy

A little personal history.

I was born to parents. I have a sister two years younger than me. My name is Kaiya. Pronounced like kayak without the last 'k'.

You would not believe what variations I get out loud, let alone the random misspellings I get on paper.

Kia, Kayla, Kalya, Kaia?
Really?

Anyways.

I had friends in school.
By grade three I turned into a social retard. Or so everyone thought.
Mostly I just wanted to keep acting like a kid.
In a school where all the kids wanted to act like adults.
So I stopped really having friends.
(Save for a few gooders. Thanks guys.)

By high school I had stopped caring.
I donned black lipstick, bad eyeliner, baggy clothes.
Listened to angry music.
Drew macabre sketches. Terrible ones. In my sketchbook.
I said I was 'goth'.
I really wasn't.
All in an attempt to scare people off.
It didn't really work all that well. Mostly just got me more attention.

Went to a camp that changed my life the summer before grade eleven.
I remember a counsellor was scared of me my second year there.
He voiced his concerns to another counsellor, "But she doesn't like people!"
I was just shy.

I started to like people again. Thanks to that camp.
Made some friends.
Dropped out of high school. It was stupid.
Got my GED.
Worked several jobs.
Found my life.
Cooking.

And thus, we come to the part where I really start my story.
The Freakhouse.

An introduction of sorts. I guess.

Perfectionism is a bitch.
I've sat here for the better part of two hours typing away only to realize that I hate it all.

All.

So it's gone. And I start over. Whilst rolling my cigarettes and playing with the newly boat-knotted cord of the new headphones I've been pining for since my last ones were crushed under the ass of one of the coolest lesbians I've ever known.
What a ladies lady.

Hardly the point.

I'm going to roll another cigarette.



Alright. So the point is, I'm sitting here, attempting to remember how words go together in pretty ways because I want to remember the past twoandabit years of my life.
I want to have a somewhat hard copy of the days that lead me to a place in my life I never imagined I'd be. Or at least, what I can recall of them.
So this is the fairytale version. The dream-like version of a story I never had the sense to write down in the first place because when do characters ever realize they're in a story? The version where I can only remember the extremes. The good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. All the details in between have been lost. But that's okay. I like fairytales.

I don't claim to be a writer. I've ignored the art for so long that I can't comprehend a time when I thought I could write. This won't be pretty, but believe me when I say it's more frustrating for me to put out the crap that I will, in fact, put out, than it is painful for you to read it.
Not that I expect you to.
Whoever you are.

Hello.

Edit: Even now my perfectionism has had me edit this post three times in the past two minutes.