Grudges, Ghostly Teachers, and Glue-Stick Homes

I hold grudges like I hold my breath. Troubling part? I regularly forget to breathe. Let me tell you this, though: I still vividly remember my English teacher, Mr. Garza. He told me to stop writing and drawing. Can you believe it? The audacity of a man who couldn’t even stand for long but insisted on standing in the way of my creativity! 

Cue dramatic eye roll.

And yes, I did stop writing for a while. Such a tragedy! Tears, sorrow, the wail of bagpipes—oh, the anguish! I pat my own back for surviving the loss of that version of me. But here’s the plot twist, my friends—I didn’t stop forever. Because GOD FORBID some cranky dude full of cafeteria chili could ever convince me I’m not a writer. (Plot armor moment: I’ve written over 800 very short stories since then, TYVM!)

Published? Ha! No, I’m broke. Publishing’s a luxury for those with fat wallets and a writer’s luck. But now—now, I finally have a place to share my work! (Shout-out to Blogger, even though it looks like it's low-key on life support. Poke the virtual space, and all you get is… gooey, sad steak vibes.)

This space might feel a bit like home; you know, if your home was a collapsing prison where the warden left the door open, but you’re too attached to leave. So now you just walk around with emotional duct tape and hot wax, patching up the cracks. Relatable? Probably not. But, oh well.

Anyway! Behold, brave traveler! My first two stories, the vanguards of many more to come. Honestly, I probably should have posted this introduction first, but hey, we’re here now. Time, much like my grudges, is an abstract concept. Let’s get chaotic!