Emotion

I feel as though I have run out of things to write on even though only one quarter of my life has been written. Perhaps not to its fullest extent is it written, but there is so much more to write of, which would be the latter part of my life so far lived. However, I am not so sure it is yet time to get to the "juicy stuff." Hell. . . the juicy stuff might not even be written for years, simply because of factors that affect people other than myself.

In fifth grade Steven left for Georgia. I didn't really care as much as most people would about their best friend leaving. I remember saying goodbye to him and his family; they were practically my own family. On the same day, one of my dog's pups died. I would swear I loved the thing before it was even born. She was the runt of the litter, I believe. I wrapped her up and put her in a shoe box that is now buried a couple feet adjacent to the oak tree in front of my house. I'm not sure why, but I named her Special. It was an odd name, but I was quite immature and the only thing that came to mind was how special she was to me, and I had no clue why. I cried that afternoon. My mom thought I was crying because of Steven's leave, but that wasn't the reason. I was crying because of the puppy; even still, she thought that was how I was hiding the truth. I didn't miss him, really. If I did, it was hardly at all.

My uncle Bobby died while I was in fifth grade as well. I don't recall as to whether he died before Steven and his family left or after. His life may as well be a story of its own, but I must tell what I know. I only saw him three times to my memory: once at a funeral for my great grandmother and twice when I was in New York visiting. I couldn't exactly see him whenever I was in New York, not because he lived away from where I visited or because he traveled a lot, but because he was in jail. He was drinking one day. He was drunk. He decided to do what many people decided upon and get away lucky with. He didn't come away lucky. With doubles of everything he saw, he couldn't help hitting the car. Two very unfortunate children died that day. They were both under a year old. . . He was supposed to get out jail during my fifth or sixth grade year; he would have been 49. But he didn't. He died from liver failure.
I hardly remember going to the funeral, but I do remember my emotions at the time. They were confusing emotions at that. I didn't know my uncle very well. According to most in my family, he's the guy whose looks I was born with. Anyway, I was confused as hell. I didn't miss him exactly, because I never knew him. I was quite apathetic about the whole thing because I didn't understand. It hit me sometime after everything that I was sad because I wish I had gotten to know him. I wish I had gotten to know him as well as my late grandmother who died before I was born. I was confused because I missed these people I didn't know. I loved these people I didn't know.

Sixth grade went by having been the year I first ever failed a test. It was a science test dealing with botany. To this day I hate botany. It was also the year I met some new friends like Scott Michael and Zach. Well, Zach wasn't a friend at the time... He was quite the jerk, actually. Anyway, sixth grade was the year I began writing. I wrote a story about machine-like aliens attacking earth. (Transformers had absolutely no influence. To tell the truth, Bionicles were my influence.) I also wrote a "poem." It was a rap song I made up. My mom went to get my books I left one day and found it in my desk. Apparently it was bad to write about such things...

Brandon Malphrus, Scott Michael, and I all became good friends sixth grade year. Scott and I shared an interest in Star Wars; I would allow him to borrow my Star Wars books and we would both write fan fiction. Brandon and I just clicked; I don't know why.

Seventh grade was nothing special. This was the year that drama first found its home at Step of Faith. Kids getting in trouble for making out. Boys and girls weren't allowed to be too close to each other. The senior grade, which was the seventh, would get into trouble for things lower grades did because "fifth and sixth graders wouldn't do that." I also got my first pair of glasses that year.

I left Step of Faith to go to Patrick Henry for eighth grade. This was the grade drama presented itself directly in my life for the first time. I started to get into major trouble. I picked on the seventh grade and picked fights with my grade and the ninth. I really started paying attention to girls that year. Everyone was too old for me and I refused to date a girl that was beneath my grade. I had thought of dating, but I never really considered it. I was too shy to consider it. I wanted to play soccer, but I couldn't get a team together. There was no other sport I cared to play. Altogether, my classes weren't half that bad.

I had my first betrayal at Patrick Henry. The beginning of my trust issues all starts here. I made a cool friend, Chris Wilson. About halfway through the school year he realized the rest of our class didn't really like me, so he decided to not be my friend and make fun of me with everyone else. It sucked. After that I didn't have anyone at all. There was this one kid we all called Frank, but we weren't that great of friends.

My witnessing also began at Patrick Henry. I found out my science teacher wasn't in tune with God. I started talking to him everyday after school. We would talk about our beliefs and such. I can only hope I made some kind of impact on his life, but I may never know. I still have a map of Mars I borrowed from his class...

My writing skills continued to develop. I started writing a story, a book, titled: The Dark War. It's my favorite story of all time, and I have yet to complete it. I stopped because I felt my writing skills weren't up to the task. I decided I needed more experience before I could actually write it.

Ninth grade...