No Inspiration

I haven’t had any inspiration to write lately.  Not here, not even in my Holmes and Phantom scenario novella.  Yeah, I was hoping it’d be novel-length, but I’m seriously doubting it.  I’m gonna double it with another story I’m working on, concerning one greatest consulting detective.  It’s said that a secret in his past has made Holmes distrustful of women, so I’ve decided to write that story and explain why he’s distrustful of the "fairer sex."

I got the dress and skirt I ordered from Torrid today.  I’ve been kind of spoiling myself on clothes as of late.  Hot Topic and such.  I like it.  I seem to be adopting a new style of dress.  And I like wearing make-up, to a degree.  Eye shadows really help to bring out my eyes, I find.

Maybe I will go back to Brookdale.  Maybe see how much schooling it would take to become a teacher.  I’ve even debated becoming a preacher, except I doubt I have the amount of sheer faith it takes to become a convincing one.

::Sighs::  These are the kinds of questions I should have been asking myself in high school and the year or so after I graduated.  Not seven plus years after graduating!  But then, back then I figured I would be a writer, that was it.

Oh, well.  I’ll figure things out somehow.

I know my entries as of late have been rather whiny, complaining about Mike and the situations surrounding him.  It still pisses me off, though.  So many things do.  Some things, I can remember fondly about him.  Things we did, or talked about.  A lot of those things, I can remember happily, or with a limited amount of wistfulness.  But others, the later things mostly, I can’t think about without being incredibly pissed off and wanting to rant.

I’ve actually begun reading a book Mike thought I’d like years ago by Mercedes Lackey.  The Free Bards.  I guess it’s a compilation novel of three seperate ones she wrote.  He said I should read it a long time ago, I think even loaning me the book, but I never read it.  Fantasy didn’t interest me then.  It does to a limited degree now.  But I’ve yet to be able to make it fifty pages into the fourth Drizzt book, simply because I think a part of me wished to be able to talk about those books with him.  And as it settled in that that’s a sheer impossibility, I lost interest in reading them.  They are good books and eventually I intend to go back to them, maybe reread the first three just to refresh my mind, but I don’t know.  Right now, I guess I can’t stomach the thought of trying to burrow my way through them anymore.  But I have them all, so one day . . .

In a way, it’s sort of the same thing with this new book.  I look at the cover and I remember him showing it to me, or seeing it at his apartment.

I wonder . . .  I mean, I really do wonder what his dad thinks about me now.  Yeah, I admit, I think that his dad was someone with absolutely no initiative who was a horrible housekeeper and had no reason to be a horrible housekeeper.  He could have done so much more with his life, but let what other people said about him make the difference between success and failure.  Yet . . . he was, save for three occasions, always so much fun to be around.  I miss that.  He always made you feel welcome.  Like you were someone important.  Yeah, sure, he’d ge annoying by talking during TV shows or something, but . . .

He always made me feel like I was part of his family.  Hell, a long time ago, he said I was part of his family.  He told me that he felt I’d just been born into the wrong family.  But that if I wasn’t a Vroom by birth, I’d certainly fit in as one through marriage.

I miss feeling like I actually belonged in a family.  No matter what I felt towards Mike’s mom, or Dan later on, that was how his dad always used to make me feel.  Like I was truly part of something.  Like I mattered to them.

But then, the last time I saw him . . .  Him and Mike’s grandma . . .  I might as well have been a stranger.  I might as well have been a door-to-door salesman for all the familiarity they showed.  It felt like they were just being polite because saying, "We don’t want you here, now go away," was too blunt or too rude or both.  Hell, when I called to talk to Mike at the end of . . . was it the end of April or the end of May?  I don’t know.  Whichever, his grandma was the one who answered the phone.  I don’t think she even recognized me.

I feel so stupid for still caring about this stuff, still being hurt by it.  Because ten bucks says that they don’t give a damn.  Ten bucks says I never cross their minds.  Ten bucks says they’re glad I’m out of their lives.

And ten bucks says that that’s gonna hurt me . . . for a long, long time.