RENAULT MEGANE.
Because you're worth it.
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007. Megan's eighteenth birthday. So I'd like to write about her.
For some reason, I have very little recollection of my first impression of Megan, other than a small stab of jealousy that she got an A* in drama, and I was sat there with my feeble little A. I'm not quite sure how we became friends; I have no memory of that happening either. It's like there is a Before Megan and an After Megan, and nothing in between. I can remember that with other people, like George and Emily and Frances. But not Megan.
But now Megan is mine, and she'll never escape, and she should bloody well get used to that fact.
I seriously feel like I can relate to Megan. Like there's no one else that's had such a bizarre childhood. I don't feel weird when I tell her everything that's happened and I don't feel like she's going to turn round and laugh or tell me I'm exaggerating or lying, or whatever anyone else does or thinks. She's nutty, just like me. That's a good thing. I like a bit of nuttiness in a girl.
So it upset me when she thought she was going to have a shit birthday.
I am of the belief that your birthday is YOUR day. You get the presents, the attention, the fun. Even if you hate someone, you are nice to them on their birthday. No one should get shit on their birthday.
Especially not Megan.
Megan, who has been exceptional to me. I must say. She is a very good friend. She's not selfless, but she's not selfish. She has The Balance. She has done the one thing I really really needed. She has listened to me.
So, a mon avis, she deserves a day worthy of her. A FABULOUS, WONDERFUL, CATACLYSMIC DAY.
(Well, perhaps not cataclysmic. That could be dangerous.)
And I'm going to do what I can. I'm going to sew as hard and fast and neat as I can to get her top finished by Tuesday, and I'm going to add in all the little surprises and perhaps, if she'll let me, buy her banana java. Because I don't want her to cry on her birthday, because I've done that far too many times to remain indifferent to it. And because I, who always has something to say- and say LOUDLY- cannot possibly explain why I adore Megan, and why I am so adamant that she should be happy. And I want her to have a good birthday, whatever happens at home.
I once read a book that said "If home is where the heart is, where do I live?"
And I've never been properly happy at home, so I always wondered at that. I liked the idea that home wasn't where you slept at night, but where you were going to sleep, when you finally were happy. And whether Megan likes her house or not, she ought to know that there's always more and that there is nothing more exciting than what's to come.
I want her to remember being 18 as being good, because she is SURROUNDED by those who love her. More than I think she realises. Smile, please, Megan.
For now you are an ADULT.
Now you are a WOMAN (heh heh).
Now you are YOU.
And believe me, that's a good thing.
(By the way, right now, I'm crying.)
And I don't care if this sounds cheesy. I'm a writer. It's a little thing called poetic license. I'm fucking well allowed.
Megan...
Happy Birthday.
"I found a way to make you...I found a way...a way to make you smile" -At Your Most Beautiful by REM.
Because you're worth it.
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007. Megan's eighteenth birthday. So I'd like to write about her.
For some reason, I have very little recollection of my first impression of Megan, other than a small stab of jealousy that she got an A* in drama, and I was sat there with my feeble little A. I'm not quite sure how we became friends; I have no memory of that happening either. It's like there is a Before Megan and an After Megan, and nothing in between. I can remember that with other people, like George and Emily and Frances. But not Megan.
But now Megan is mine, and she'll never escape, and she should bloody well get used to that fact.
I seriously feel like I can relate to Megan. Like there's no one else that's had such a bizarre childhood. I don't feel weird when I tell her everything that's happened and I don't feel like she's going to turn round and laugh or tell me I'm exaggerating or lying, or whatever anyone else does or thinks. She's nutty, just like me. That's a good thing. I like a bit of nuttiness in a girl.
So it upset me when she thought she was going to have a shit birthday.
I am of the belief that your birthday is YOUR day. You get the presents, the attention, the fun. Even if you hate someone, you are nice to them on their birthday. No one should get shit on their birthday.
Especially not Megan.
Megan, who has been exceptional to me. I must say. She is a very good friend. She's not selfless, but she's not selfish. She has The Balance. She has done the one thing I really really needed. She has listened to me.
So, a mon avis, she deserves a day worthy of her. A FABULOUS, WONDERFUL, CATACLYSMIC DAY.
(Well, perhaps not cataclysmic. That could be dangerous.)
And I'm going to do what I can. I'm going to sew as hard and fast and neat as I can to get her top finished by Tuesday, and I'm going to add in all the little surprises and perhaps, if she'll let me, buy her banana java. Because I don't want her to cry on her birthday, because I've done that far too many times to remain indifferent to it. And because I, who always has something to say- and say LOUDLY- cannot possibly explain why I adore Megan, and why I am so adamant that she should be happy. And I want her to have a good birthday, whatever happens at home.
I once read a book that said "If home is where the heart is, where do I live?"
And I've never been properly happy at home, so I always wondered at that. I liked the idea that home wasn't where you slept at night, but where you were going to sleep, when you finally were happy. And whether Megan likes her house or not, she ought to know that there's always more and that there is nothing more exciting than what's to come.
I want her to remember being 18 as being good, because she is SURROUNDED by those who love her. More than I think she realises. Smile, please, Megan.
For now you are an ADULT.
Now you are a WOMAN (heh heh).
Now you are YOU.
And believe me, that's a good thing.
(By the way, right now, I'm crying.)
And I don't care if this sounds cheesy. I'm a writer. It's a little thing called poetic license. I'm fucking well allowed.
Megan...
Happy Birthday.
"I found a way to make you...I found a way...a way to make you smile" -At Your Most Beautiful by REM.
