Every Little Thing Between Pens And Paintbrushes

Chapter 8 | Paint and Notes

That typical movie scene where the protagonist gets a hangover after a night of voluntarily embarrassing herself in front of strangers, and then in the morning she forgets about everything?

I really wished that were true.

I wished that every single moment of mortification during that night had actually been eradicated from my mind. I mean, it could have been a better turnout if chosen parts of it were erased from my recollection. The thought of conceding to my first drink, the tipsy feeling, even the fact of getting drunk, itself, all of which my ego could still manage to accept. But to my dismay, I remembered almost every detail, and unfortunately, of the highlights of the night.

Nearly speaking British? That's my boyfriend right there? And I call him sweet potato? I love everybody in the room?

Sure, Cara. You never really failed to disappoint yourself in the end.

In consequence, I found it even more difficult to finish another chapter of my work in progress romance novel. I was beginning to be skeptical of its value again. A series of 'What ifs' surged through my mind as Ms. Rodriguez popped into my head for the nth time as I was trying to type, that afternoon. It was even harder when I knew I had to prioritize my academics first. But the fact that a book editor was just around my vicinity every day, I could barely resist the compulsion to write and finish this book.

And there's the fact that I'm practically on a hangover after embarrassing myself in front of my friends, Zakk, most of all, and a couple of strangers I wished I never would come across with in this lifetime again.

When I walked through the school premises that day, I felt like my head was carrying a bolder, my eyelids were fighting the urge to close, and it seemed that my body needed someone to lift it. The hangover wasn't as critical as typical teenage drunkards, but a part of my weariness was my lack of sleep. It felt like I only slept for 5 hours. It was a good thing my class today was still in the afternoon for me to take a break in the morning after that draining, yet admittedly memorable night.

When I passed by the English Department, I spotted just the person I least wanted to see for the fact that I'd just be remembering my unfinished compositions.

Ms. Rodriguez was rummaging through her table drawers and then she leaned back on her seat, sighing. She looked just as gorgeous as any other days in a short peach dress under a black see-through cardigan. I didn't know exactly what it was but I always felt drawn to this woman, like somehow I knew she would a person to understand my frustrations in writing and most of all, get me over with it.

I felt the urge of entering their door. And maybe just ask her what it took for my book to approved by an editor, more importantly, by her. It was absurd to think of such possibility, but I couldn't help it.

A loud voice always tells me 'What if I failed?', but another merely whispers 'What if you just stepped right in there and tried to utter a single inquisition?'.

I stared right through the door, developing that awkward feeling for myself for acting such weird.

Do I come in? Do I not?

Of course, I knew it didn't mean that I'd become an instant best-selling author when I found the courage to befriend and be approved by this lady. It was just that I at least wanted mere advices, a mere discovery of my works, a mere recognition, which would all eventually lead to a bigger opportunity. Nevertheless, I was still determined to get her approval. I was fully aware it wasn't going to be easy, and my chances were evidently at odds, but at least it was still there.

Still, I was pissed. Of everything about it, really.

Knowing there weren't any people around, I tried to scowl at the door, but in a muttering groan. Practically, just groaning to my own frustrations.