June

My name is June.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.

But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.

So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.

But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.

"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."

Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.

But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.

Geez, I sound like a soap opera.

Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.

This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.

So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.

And realized the fish was gone.