dead roses & body counts//tøp

two - social interaction

warning: foul language

/jenna/

I left my home the week after I turned eighteen. I had vowed as a teenager to pursue total autonomy from the militaristic regime I was forced to endure my whole life. I always understood that discipline and firm parenting was essential for the upbringing of a child, but at some point, I realized that certain boundaries had been long crossed and surpassed. It was more than feeling pressured under certain rules I disliked; it was an atmosphere of negativity and fear for the imminence of meeting the fierce anger of my parents. As a child, I understood that punishment for lying or other trivial "sins" were normal, but as I matured and the punishments had lost their sense of purpose and were becoming ridiculous, I knew I needed to escape. A teen girl shouldn't be locked in her mother's closet with a Bible and a half-broken flashlight all night for momentarily dozing off during Sunday services at church. Especially if it was only her first offense. I was forced to survive that and much worse.

Once I moved out, I discovered that being a fresh graduate and runaway scarcely resulted in enough money to support myself. I immediately went to my best friend, Ashley, who had a similar mindset (but for different reasons). Ashley was, is, not the best when it comes to rules – she's bisexual (not well looked upon by most of the Bible Thumpers back home), an avid fanatic of permanently inking her skin, and lighting up a "few." I never minded the scent of marijuana fumes, but I never sought to participate in those types of extracurricular activities. Gradually, Ashley and I scraped enough enough cash by working odd jobs quickly and at the same time, and then rented an apartment together. Neither of us made plans to improve our living conditions much after, even three years later. We worked enough to sustain ourselves and keep the apartment functioning, but we were both minimalists. She was ambitious and confident, got her way with everyone (the way she wooed the landlord into lowering the price by a hefty sum left me with a staggering, even lower self confidence), and had the sharp tongue of a devil. We balanced each other well; Ashley was gregarious and befriended everyone. She was flirty and sweet, and very well inclined with all things musical. Where she was people-smart, I perfectly countered her with books-smarts. Her silver tongue was eloquent, but mine was always poisonous and steel-tipped, and it often ended up destroying relationships one way or another. I was shy, low on self confidence and self esteem (a result of a high school tragedy that could turn blood sour), but had the brains like none other. The only thing I could ever thank my parents for was forcing me to stay inside and read. I unlocked a world of knowledge that allowed me to butter-knife through my whole education and still enjoy some slivers of it. Ashley talked to people, and I handled our money and purchases. I didn't talk to people because people made me forget English. It forged a great balance and an even better friendship between us.

She had her head in the clouds since freshman year when it came to her career. Ashley would dreamily play on her guitar, sing to me, and make me promise that if she ever came out with a record, I'd have to buy it. I constantly assured her that, yes, I'd buy her records, and yes, I'd see her perform live and support her along the way, but I withheld the fact that I had a gut feeling she'd long forget me if she ever achieved her goal. I wouldn't mind being stranded in the dust if it meant I had the bragging rights to say Ashley Frangipane and I had shared clothes and fought over the last pancake. Me, on the other hand? My genius brain was cursed with intentions that rendered my knowledge utterly useless.

I wanted to be a poet. I wanted to string words together and pretend they sounded pretty. At first, I considered going into chemistry because I always had a knack for that sort of thing, or even law, but then my library order had been swapped with a book of poems because of a simple error on the librarian's part (poor woman was half blind and lost her glasses in her nest of white hair constantly), and I had fallen in love slowly and then all at once. I ordered dozens of books on poems, how to write them, how to read and interpret them (without an irritating English teacher to stand in the way, too!), and whatever I could get my hands on. I lived and breathed the rhythm of words until my lungs burned with meaning, purpose, and senses.