All I really need is my brain.

I was mildly picked on in middle school. Nothing too serious or scarring- just the normal "hey, you look like a boy" you might expect a late bloomer with an unfortunate haircut to receive in 6th grade.

The teasing didn't bother me as much as the sheer lack of attention from ANY of my classmates- I was invisible and I hated it.

I had one place of solice in those times where I was alone and no one was interested in talking to me. It was my stories. They were in my head and mostly resulted in me talking to myself (which didn't help my social scene). I loved where my mind went and I spent hours fine tuning the worlds that existed in my head.

Somewhere along the line I got to the point where I needed a bra (a HUGE step for me in my adolescence), and seemed to gain enough confidence to actually hang out with a group of people. And I talked to myself less, at least in public. The stories never went away.

Here we are, 2007 and for the second time, I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. Whats that, you ask? November is National Novel Writing Month and within a few minutes of registration0 you can sign yourself up to the challenge of churning out 50,000 words in 30 days.

Matt was a finisher last year, and I am so proud. I signed up and came in around oh, say 400 words. But I'd just had a baby and it was Wyatts first year of school, yada, yada, yada.

No excuses this year.

I continue to be that weird kid on the outskirts in many ways. I'm still terrifed of being ignored. Some things never change. And now I have the added disfunction of being a materialistic glutton.

I had a sort of social break down a few weeks ago- no a big deal- I just sort of threw a fit and gt depressed because no one liked me...that old chestnut. And around the same time started a stuff binge that involved hours and hours of selling my stuff in order to get new and better stuff and resulting in losing more money in shipping costs at the close of it all.

Then I saw a light...new inspiration on my journey to free myself from this sort of garbage.

I still have my stories. And I'm signed up for this thing...I've GOT to do this. I've got the material in my head....it's time to stop thinking about better cotton tights for the girls, or, new bathroom rugs, and start conceptualizing my novel. Time to forget about whether or not my friends just tolerate me and start using my creativity for once.

Why do I need all this stuff when I've got these ideas that have fascinated me forever? Is that not a gift?

All I really need is my brain. (and love, and God....yeah, yeah, yeah....I know)

And I have to say...what ever happened to that AWESOME tapestry vest I was wearing? Now theres a look that hasn't come back around.