Misery

One.

A dreamer. That's what I am beyond words.

        I'm the kind of person that thinks of ridiculous scenarios that'll never happen and eventually develop into nothing but false hopes. If I thought about it hard and long enough, I would actually begin to believe that whatever I had in my mind at the time was going to happen somehow. But isn't that what people always told us when we were young? To "dream big?"

        I remember that when I was around the age of six, I wanted nothing more than to be a singer, a songwriter, even. The ambitions I wanted had a combination of my two favorite things to do in the entire world; singing and writing. That's all I do in my spare time.

When I'm happy, I sing and write. When I'm upset, I sing and write. When I'm angry, I sing and write. When I'm bored out of my mind and procrastinate way too much to do my homework or any other responsibilities I may have, you guessed it. Writing for me is such a stress reliever even when I'm not stressed. Sometimes it's not even that I like to do it. Sometimes I feel like I have to in order to feel like myself, but by all means, I love it.

I even remember being really young and attempting to write my own songs, thinking every single verse had to have the same rhyme scheme. If I were to show someone my failed attempts, it would go a little something like this:

Baby, don't you have a clue?

I wanna be with you.

Your eyes are bright blue;

Almost like your shoes.

I've gotta lot to prove;

Now get up and move!

        I had fans at that age, but I don't really think that my mother and my best friend, Sienna, count. I know mom's always pull that cliché I'm-not-saying-it-because-I'm-your-mother-I'm-saying-it-because-its-true thing, but she most definitely did when she said that that could be on the top charts one day. Sienna, on the other hand, is the kind of person that's over the top when it comes to anything. Loving my horrible song was an understatement.

In the first grade (when the dreadful thing was born) she would run around the playground and belt the lyrics. Even worse, she ran up to one of my now childhood crushes, Camden, and sang the lyrics. The worst part?

***

"Sienna! What are you doing?!" I shrieked, my small hands now on either side of my cheeks with my eyes wide, the look on my face almost as if I had seen Casper.

My hazel eyes shift back and forth between my blonde-haired and blue-eyed best friend to the auburn-headed, blue-eyed boy who hung above her by the legs on the monkey bars with his arms dangling over his head. I was about ten feet away, but I mentally refused to move.

There were kids running around everywhere, small groups of little boys and girls playing games of tag or hide-and-seek rushing around me frantically to get to their desired destination. She looked over her shoulder to make eye contact with me before a devious smirk formed on her lips. She turned back to Camden.

        "Brielle wrote a song for you, Cam! She told me she wanted you to hear it because she's too shy to sing it." Far from the truth, might I add. I even tried bribing her with my last pack of fruit snacks for my lunch and she promised me she wouldn't do what she's doing right now if I gave them to her. Lesson learned: you are your own individual in elementary school.

        I took two steps forward since it felt right, my small sandals picking up some wood chips that wove their way between my feet and the soles of my sandals when I moved. Camden's crystal blue eyes held confusion and disinterest in the situation. I don't blame the poor kid.