Some people who know of my past in a general way treat me as if I'm other-worldly or a walking mine field. I admit, it's awkward, but it doesn't have to be. I don't expect people to take care of me or something. Anyway, you can read the book of my life someday and it'll all make more sense, but don't hold your breath waiting for it. My sister always jokes that our family will become the basis of an ABC Sunday night movie, a hideous thought. I can see it now...it'll be like the Amy Fisher saga, with the perpetrators' version, our version, and the next-door neighbor's version. (They never did like us.) If I have anything to say on the subject, it is very sad knowing that your parents are alive but can never be a part of your life. They're pretty crazy, but sometimes I really miss them. Or, I guess the idea of parents. Maybe sometime, if you want to read about attitude and body language, I'll describe my parents for you, as they are a genuine case study.
Blah blah blah blah blah. How I do ramble, and I'm not even discussing movement. Something about that word makes me want to italicize it. One thing I've learned from my nasty past is how not to move. I can not move better than most, although it isn't much to boast of. I have to be in the right mood, however, because most of the time I have a plethora of nervous energy. It could be worse--I could smoke.
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