Short Lived Life

Books and unfinished business

No one really knows how the dinosaurs died. Its very odd. They have theories, but theories aren't the same as actually knowing. The whole world is weird like that. Scientists are know-it-alls. People are jerks. there's war, there's peace, and then there's nothing.

Its pretty stupid.

And I should know. I was born in a stupid world and I'll die in a stupid world. I know I'm going on about nonsense and none of this is really related to my story but in a way it is. I'll start my story with a stupid anecdote and I'll end it with a stupid anecdote. But before I end it, I have to begin it. And the first stupid thing to happen in my story is all my parents fault.

Let's start with my name.

Its Geraldine. Gerry for short.

One of the oldest names ever. I don't totally despise it, but its not exactly the prettiest name if you get what I'm saying. Not that I'm trying to be pretty, 'cause I'm not. That train left a while ago, and I don't expect to be coming back. Nor will I try and catch up to it, breath all choppy and ragged, hair frizzy and never close to being the same again, body heaving from the struggle, long and hard.

So, as long as it isn't coming back, I might as well get on with my story. I never liked to dwell on something for a long period of time. Just not my thing, I guess.

I like books. Well, like is a bland word, but I don't like to use love often. Its not my thing either. I like my books like a gardener loves their plants, stroking the leaves and spraying misty water on the stalks. Except I devour the words and soak in what the author is trying to say. Absorb the knowledge, stroke the creativity, find the purpose.

I currently have a large, black and purple bookcase filled with books.

Absolutely    FILLED .

I couldn't stuff my grandmothers dentures in there, let alone more books.

My grandmother died last week by the by. It wasn't anything horrible, let me tell you. She died of old age. Her brittle heart didn't feel like working anymore. If I had to pump thick, hot crimson all around someone's body for 97 years, I think I would have been done right about then too.

Its pretty reasonable. At least I think so.

It wasn't a horrible death, but it was still sad; as death usually is. My parents were crushed. I was sad but not sappy. It was still hard of course. My grandmother was sort of an escape for me. She was the robber and I was her jewels stuffed into a burlap sack. She stole me away from my parents at the most convenient times. Once we set off we laughed and cried and talked and skipped joyously.

You're thinking: This wacko doesn't like her parents.

The truth is: I don't like my parents.

I'm not holding grudges for naming me something old, I'm holding grudges because they are impossible people.

Like, really, REALLY IMPOSSIBLE

They are Hippocrates. They said when I turned 7 we could get a pet.

That was seven years ago, and I'm still waiting for the pet.