A Flare For The Dramatic

During the holiday vacation, my mother announced to my sisters and me that she had boxes of junk that belonged to us, and it needed to dealt with. In other words, make it go away, I'm sick of tripping over it. And thus, one day for several hours my siblings and I thoroughly enjoyed sorting through an assortment of old report cards, class photos and miscellaneous notes.

The more we read, the more we laughed, but it also became readily apparent how talented and interesting each of my sisters were (and still are), while I, on the other hand, was all smoke and mirrors. They earned top notch grades and the praise of their teachers. I was average at best and regularly garnered comments expressing the faculty's concerns that I lacked focus and failed to take my studies seriously.

But, I don't care. My sisters deserve everything they've earned and more. And hey, I really didn't make out too bad myself as it turns out considering the facts... only one divorce, laid off from a high-paying job, contracted zero STD's and I, of course have this blog. Not too shabby. However, what actually brought me the greatest embarrassment was the evidence inditing me as, well, "over-dramatic."

Here are a few samples

At a young age I demonstrated a great deal of potential as demonstrated by my first (and only) Literary Award received for my epic entry "The First Story of The Hostages," written in the second grade about the Iranian Hostage Crisis (I still list this award in my writing resume today). 

But after such acclaim, I seemed to have lost my way. Frustrated by the inability to produce a follow-up success, I became quarrelsome and moody leading to explosive fights with my mother. In this particular instance she told me she had had enough and demanded that I get out. But, at twelve years old, I wasn't about to fold, leaving this note for my father to find with the hopes he would be so distraught that he would confront my mother's heartless demands of me.

If you can't read what it says allow me to reprint the text in its original form.

I'm sorry
Mom told me to get out so I did
Don't deny it when Dad get's here

I'm going to become a mercenary
And don't worry about my education

I'LL MAKE IT MOM

Bye
Ron

PS. I paid for the gun. It's on the bed.

(to clarify, as part of my plans to become a warlord for hire, I took the .22 rifle used for hunting squirrels and rabbits leaving $20 bucks on the bed with the note. Needless to say, I never made it to that civil war in African Congo)

The note may have brought a smile to my mom's face, but it still did little to smooth the issues preventing my future success as a writer leading to even more drama. In this example it seems I continued to live up to my teacher's perceptions that I lacked serious attention to my studies in junior high.

Once again, I'll rewrite the text in it's original(and I can't stress the word original enough) form for clarification.

Dear Mom,

I know three D's ain't the greatest grades in the world but I am very sorry that I didn't get good grades. I am going to tell the reasons I didn't get good grads.

(#1) Spelling: I don't know why I got a D on my spelling, I wasn't jittery about the words, I was so cofident I would get an A.I even told you. I'm very sorry about my spelling.
(#2) Math Story Problems: It was an easy bunch of um. I guess I just a few simple mistacks.

(#3) Science: I geuss Mrs B*****'s suprise science quiz took me by suprise.

But look on the bright side of all this I got two A's in Bible verses (I attended a Christian school), and Reading.

Well gota go study spelling.

Love Ron (even know you want to beat my head in).

Reading this now, I see I should have pursued a career in dramatic acting and rather than writing. This letter (and those misspellings are correct) made me just. Want. To. Die.

Please tell me you were or your kids are more dramatic than this. I may never blog again otherwise.