It would be appropriate that the first post I write is on an airplane. I always seem to be on one of these things, I guess that’s what happens when you’re a product of divorced parents.
My name is Isabella, and I’m what you would call a modern day princess. You know in all the shows about the ridiculously wealthy people theres always one girl that fits, but doesn’t? Well that would be me. Don’t get me wrong, you ask anyone who really knows me and they can’t imagine me traveling something that isn’t first class or not having walking closet — one of my prides and joy mind you — but I swear theres more to me than the bubble I live in, and there are days that I wish this bubble didn’t exist; then I remember how much I enjoy being driven around everywhere and that desire to burst this metacognitive economic paradise goes away. It makes for good writing, people feed of the life of people like me (that sounded a lot less snobbier in my head).
Any who. Like any princess, my boyfriend is pretty much perfect, my friends are alcoholics, shopaholics, equestrians (could you get more pertinacious than that?), and and my family is anything but functional. Like I said before, my parents are divorced, and family drama is something I’m so used to I’m pretty much immune to it. I also have a Persian cat. My life revolves around my two homes, Colombia and the Dominican Republic, as well as New York City, Miami, and well, Ithaca. Could I be a more stereotypical and cliched white girl with money? I mean I don’t like Starbucks so I guess that makes me special?
As I write these words I’m hours away from landing home, where a week of blood wars, empty bottles are the norm the that bubble traps you; I’m stepping into a snow globe of glitter.
So here I stare at my screen once again trying to make sense why I decided to start a blog in the first place. I read over my first post and think to myself yeah well that was a dandy idea but I don’t really think I have anything to say. For some reason, that desire to tell my story simply vanished; disappeared along with every scar of self proclaimed voice that I haven’t really found. I don’t even think I’ve started looking for it.
But that’s the thing. I deny myself the chance to write down the ideas and feelings that buzz back and forth through my mind and drill the back of it at such a pace that I’m surprised I don’t have a crater at the back of my head. I deny them because writing them down makes them real; my specialty if throwing my feelings away when they become too much. Wash down the memories by pretending they don’t exist. I lie to myself when I say, “Today is the day that I’ll narrate the joys or the tumbles of my week,” simply because I convince myself mid post that my words aren’t worth it or that if I complain too much I’ll turn into my mother.
The thing is, today actually is that day. Today I restructure this thing to something that looks more like something that will look more like journal than anything else, my poetry will still be here, it’ll just be moved to a different tab. I apologize to those who might find this recount of my days as boring, and to my family because they’ll pretty much be fucked over because of this. I also apologize to everyone I mention. You’ll all a part of my life, and I know people will get hurt along the way, but this is my story: dysfunctional family included. The fact that so many of the people I know, know about this site probably won’t help either.
Get ready for useless stories every Sunday at around 5