FicWad

A dash of light only seemed to be the first thing that came across my mind... literally.

The sun was bright, burning so vibrantly that it felt like my skin might just singe off from another beam of light. And the ironic part was, I was dying of cold. That's what you get when you are Lynette Groves: a mind boggling fever in the middle of June. There were perks to being sick in the summer, I suppose; I mean you get to ditch work for fear of your floor manager thinking you would "contaminate the summer collection," eat ice cream and feel like you are on the brink of catching hypothermia, and sit at home on a day where the temperatures don't even exceed your own body temperature. I really wish my negative feedback would kick in anytime now, preferably soon, so I could go back to lugging my behind into work, standing around "folding clothes" (when really, all Rebecca and I did was stand around and play word association games with everyone else), and pretend that the summer before my senior year would be mediocre to recount back upon. I'm going to be one cool schmuck when I have grandchildren, I can tell them that instead of partying to the extent where I could no longer discover the truth about fallacies and reality, pretending to sneak out behind my parents back, and falling in love... I actually, amazingly, spent it with my closest friend, working a job at Aeropostale in the Westside Pavilion Mall, and pretending that I didn't live in a world where the sidewalk was upside down. Really though, I wasn't quite sure how I had gotten lucky enough with the luck of the draw, but I got some pretty sweet genes. I'm one inch and one year away from being a legal midget, I like to believe that saran wrap is the Anti-Christ, my school work comes before breathing, and I have the biggest collection of books that can drive a person mad. Oh right, I forgot to mention that I get sick in the summer, and my immune system likes to remain invincible so I can continue to have these horrific experiences every month at least twice! Yes, my immune system is totally awesome; I'm evaluating my sanity, along with justifying my immune system's wonky practices, all while I'm letting the ultraviolet rays burn my flesh. It was seven thirty in the morning on a Saturday in June and I was laying in bed, close to some mind-blowing epiphany on my immune system.

Oh yeah, I totally do it B-I-G.

I figure since I've already explained thoroughly the workings of my bodily functions (but I figure I can save you from the health lecture or someone might experience some indigestion), I can't escape from confusing my thoughts all along. They were a mess so it would only explain that so was I. Technically, I don't think it would be "proper" to be labelled as a mess because that's not a legit stereotype, is it? I'm more of just... all over the board. That's not critical enough to be in the typical genres that humanity has placed subliminal messages into, but it worked. Growing up I was always "the tomboy," the girl who knew which way to fake a left turn on the soccer field and already uncovered the plot to Half-Life from a video game marathon of going on for sleepless nights. I knew which knot to lace on my mortal enemy's shoes during basketball so they would acquire a new pirate-esque characteristic, and I have managed to make my way up the top notches of the game of soccer to earn myself a Captain position -- enviable? Not likely. But when I was younger, I thought it was a beautiful accomplishment, awe-stricken with the ideal that I could do anything I want, be anything I wanted to be... just as long as I knew how to become the magician on the field and score the goals. I never really changed, I've been the same Lynette when I first moved to Los Angeles; well, I hit puberty. Then, overnight somehow, I grew boobs and something developed inside of me; like, instead of being the "old me," I had to be something different. I didn't want to shift gears, I liked being this awkward and sensible tomboy who loved nothing more than soccer. I tried talking to guys and what a failed attempt that became. Mortified, I regained my consciousness of capabilities through my academics. Hell, if I couldn't figure out the chemical composition to decoding a guy's crush, I certainly could embellish with the formula to decomposition in a normal human body. I was a walking, talking, breathing machine -- school-driven machine, that is. So I'm a bit geeky, a little modish, and a grand schemer in the field of boy speak but never boy language. At least I could say I knew the way to making guy friends, but never agreeing to making more of it.

So I was a football wallflower. Again: not my fault. I was born and raised in the city of everlasting life, where you could be anything you could ever fathom invalid.. but just so happened to have been twice overdone. No, not the Big Apple... think again. Far from Sin City; try again. Well yes, I am a southern California girl, by birth, by nature, by privilege, by passion. What can I say; I can't get enough of pollution that creates wrinkles in the ozone layer, created ringlets of disasters that a person had to endure to make their name a prestigious household product, and an infinite amount of emotions that could only result in one word: home. I've never really experienced anything outside of California, but I knew that when I walked outside of my loft on Wilshire Blvd, I was home -- a breath of air and it was really all it ever took. I was born into a life of privilege; no, I am not saying that I am some crazy crackpot teen socialite who is the heiress to some new money family business in Hollywood. I was just lucky enough to have a gypsy hippie of a mother that decided that, ironically, she was going to be tied down to this city as her mark forever. Los Angeles has always been my home, I've never known anything else in the entire galaxy better than this town like the back of my palm. 3.8 million people dwelling in a familiar habitat and I knew that nobody else out there had just felt blessed enough to live in a town where nobody could sleep in the privacy of a luxurious castle, where there is no dominant culture against the sea of nations that reside in my neighborhood, or where things are fast paced that the 5 freeway become the shadow of what it is that we -- the inhabitants, the diverse, the culture, the LA rats, the lovers -- have come to place as a burden upon everything else. In a city where things are deemed to be traveling as quick as the feverish twist of a millisecond, anything had become innumerable. Being a football wallflower? It had been done before. I never claimed that I was ever anything original, and I don't think I ever would. But I like to think that growing into a town of such diversity, I had been my own person. I had my own identity to cope with, despite the legalities of what else there was still out there to reflect back upon myself.

That's okay; I'm Lynette and I have things that nobody else has had before, and they have possessions that I have never touched -- we're even.

Of course I'm awkward, I live in a world where it's extraordinary to see this world as a humane situation, where nobody could do wrong. I was a soon-to-be seventeen-year-old girl living in her own conception, a bubble of reality that didn't seem to excite or please anyone else. I've only given logistics to my outer shell, almost as if I'm quizzing everyone on what kind of city I live in (oh and if you called Los Angeles a city, you're technically wrong since it's more formal to consider it a metropolitan. Get it together, man!). I've never been one for consistency; quite frankly, I tend to brush away from the subject plenty of times that make people become either very intrigued by my mode of discourses within my nature, or simply rather annoyed that I can't remain relevant to my previous comment. I'm okay being jumpy -- the resemblance I have to a Mexican Jumping Bean is uncanny -- because it leaves more room for me to let people wander my wonky inner workings. Not many people wanted to see what was inside my cavities; I was a "nutter" as my mom bluntly left it to me. She figured that if she could classify me under a rare species in the legume family, everyone might as well have a go at something witty. I really don't figure how she came to the conclusion that I was nutty, probably when I was around the toddler age when I began to sing my numbers as my ABC's and my numbers as my shapes. My imagination is full of awesome and I really don't care what people have to say about it; I've come to accept that my imagination is weird, therefore: weird = "unique." Isn't that what parents tell their kids nowadays? Except mine, they just told me I was loopy and didn't make coherent sense out of my ramblings or the doodles of our front yard that appeared that a rainbow vomited all over it. Like I said, I never make any proper sense and that's okay if you don't full make any logistics out of my words. I'm still trying to manifest my collection of unique phrases to submit to Websters to see if I can make the world happy with new words and phrases that might find some usefulness in their intangible emotions. My life is full of wonder and hope that I someday hope that the wonders of this universe will find their ways to other human beings. I'm pretty "unique," what can I say?

I might as well begin with the raw truth of who I've been living as under a mask for nearly seventeen years. Of course I'm Lynette, the one and only who manages to catch a bitter and ruthless cold in the beginning of summer, collect an assortment of literature books and vinyl records for entertainment purposes, and happens to find the only man attractive in this universe is Brandon Boyd. Of course I'm a little neurotic, I tend to twitch when it's my turn to play out my drama sketches but in the end, I just fall back into the realm of reality and find out that being onstage or writing an article is just about the only two things I could ever find myself doing for the rest of my life. Of course I'd love to paint and create master pieces for the rest of my life, but I'm not sure how well my liberal and surrealist style would tone the world with a close-minded atmosphere. That or I'd simply go broke from painting too many different pieces and never finding any satisfying buyers. There's plenty about myself that people have to dig deeper for, but I like to keep low-key because, of course, nobody ever travels deep enough into my core to realize that I am far from being hollow. My best friend likes to call me Miss Unoriginal Breakthrough -- or Mubbie as Rebecca liked to brand me with -- because I was the only girl that "defied the stereotypes and broke the barrier of the norm." I had a bit of an awkward obsession to drive two and a half hours to Indio to catch Interpol, Justice, and the Mars Volta for brief sets and pass out, to create these intellectual conversations with all people about the "meaning of life" that they directly avoid me right afterwards, and to play the piano like my fingers were dancing across a midnight sky without a wonder of their own inhibitions of the reality that we both had surfaced in. My rules were simple: jokes are mandatory, laughing is a demand, and to act as a person would away from the stereotypical bullshit of communist driven capitalism America -- oh, right, and no touching of the face during Guitar Hero OR Rock Band because that was just a no-no for experts. No, I'm far from being these little technology wiz since my older brother still laughs when I can't figure out which switch in the back is my USB plug, I've got the suckiest timing in the entire world, and I flat out suck with flirting manipulation. My best friend was the expert with the guys, I just happened to know what made us both click with a platonic relationship. Actually, I noticed, I really sucked at being open to it because when it came to flirting, I was as oblivious as the citizens of Hiroshima had been. I'm the type of girl that would understand anyone and everyone's situations, and look right into their eyes and try to find a positive light, and give them the look that kind of made them feel a little more welcome in the world. Other girls just weren't like me. I just wasn't like other girls.

My plate is full of awesome and I can share.

I've become so lost in my own surreal form of reality, I always forget that I'm not alone in anything at all -- I'm the third oldest of six, the eldest girl, and the only child with hazel-green eyes. Even when it comes to genetics I'm an outcast and I've never had an issue with it, most of the time, I'm the only one who secretes myself long enough to evaporate into the midst of the tension of our loft home, and my parents only come to notice me when I emerge from my room with a large canvas in my grasp, they get my latest grades, or I'm just waving my arms frantically and bleeding to death. I'm somewhat forgotten after being the middle child, and I really am the only one who tries to shrine through in a plastic molding and stay hidden forever. I don't want to be recognized by any means, and I want to be as invincible and unforgettable as I possibly can. I've got plenty of qualities that make me this "idealistic inhuman" image of perfection for my parents, but I don't just want to be anybody or somebody... I just want to be a body that is nowhere of importance. If I can scrap along, I'm satisfied. There are far more logical connections I can place my tongue on to care about, and none which will ever include the words animal meat... ever. I can't help it that I'm some football obsessed, quiet brainiac, awkward shadow, video game relentless theater rat, soccer driven, immune system weak human being. I'm Lynette and I guess I'll always be me.

It's just a matter of time before I disappear... but my shadow will always remain.

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A/N: I've got a bit of an awkward writing style as a few people like to call it -- I just like to think it's... different -- but trust me, it will improve! I'm trying to set the bricks of the foundation of the story so everyone can get an insight to the duality of our main girl and she'll be juggling some mysteries in the future. I figure this might be a first-person narrative of a girl's kind of "coming-of-age" in a way, so I guess you can be on the look out for that. I'm still in the process of writing the second chapter so hold onto your horsies there, saddlers! Yeehaw!