...

      The fifth was a good day. My aunt, two cousins, and two second cousins came by; this time we had weeks to prepare. We laughed a lot and played games until late. I now know how to play the Victorian game, Old Maid; but since there were children involved, we didn't drink alcohol. (Well, Mom did. Thankfully it didn't mess with her too much.) I was even on a roll, telling jokes and being entertaining. When my brother lost the round of Old Maid, that's what I nicknamed him. I might not have, if he hadn't proclaimed, "I'm the old maid!"
      I lost both matches of Sorry, one round of war, and I won all Old Maids. It was beautiful revenge.
      Now I'm sitting here, stressed to the bone; wishing the good times could last...We have to get up much too soon to go shopping for soft food and Boost, in preparation of my surgery tomorrow. I tried to back out, but yet again they threatened to put me in a home. I think after I've recovered from my surgery I'll ship on out of here. I see no other way to prove to them that I don't need them fussing over me if I'm not heavily medicated. Yes, yes, I get lost and I'm scared of that; but who isn't? I at least know how to ask for directions, and if a sixteen-year-old, a minor, can do it, then I don't see why I need to put up with this. I intend on getting a job and taking care of myself; and if I really strike gold, then I can still help them keep a roof over their heads and a car in their driveway.
      I know I'm not a strong speaker. But I have other strengths. I don't see why I can't make it, if others can.
      The molding is the biggest reason I fear tomorrow. You have no idea what it's like. Allow me to aid you with that. You're instructed to open your mouth as wide as you can, and the denturist puts this fat, round, colored gob into your mouth and it tastes like vomit, and it's about half the size of your fist. And as you sit there, squeezing the arm rests and try to keep your lunch down, you bite the little ball of barf, and it molds itself over your teeth and into every gap and crevice in your mouth. The doctor is panicking, because you're gagging and there's a good chance you'll vomit; and finally he can't take it anymore and takes it out of your mouth, leaving behind little balls of vomit-tasting gob all over your tongue. You rush to the sink to rinse, feeling like a damn coward as he tells you, "We'll try this again. How's later today?"
      That's how mine always works. So, to try and do us all a favor, I'm going to request they do the molding while I'm sedated.
      Know what the worst part is? All this worrying makes sleep impossible. I'm definitely tired enough, but I don't even want to go to bed. I want to stay awake until the seventh, and try to enjoy myself.
      A long, long, long, long, long time ago, I bought a reddish-purple piece of silk. It's fairly big, and I have a reddish-purple dress with no sleeves. I hate showing my arms, and finally I requested we go to a seamstress and attach this silk to fashion sleeves. I love this dress. It's got a tapered waist, which makes me look about thirty pounds lighter; and when I wear it I feel...gorgeous, and strong. It's such an amazing feeling that it inspires me to work out. I don't know why I haven't been doing it religiously; it does feel pretty good. I think tonight I'm going to work out like I've never worked out before - put in my newly charged MP3, and don't stop until I'm sweating and I've heard everything. It might serve as a distraction, although lately not even listening to my favorites can really take my mind off my surgery. Talking about it sure doesn't do much good; according to my mother, brother, and my aunt I'm going to be "extremely sore", which is definitely not what I wanted to hear.
      But, I've vomited before. Though it's unpleasant and disgusting, I'm pretty sure the denturist provides mouthwash and such. I'll recover. I always do.
      Before I go begin my workout, I just want to stall for one moment more. I've been researching my ancestors, and while I only accomplished running in the same circles as I have been for over a decade, I did rediscover a quote from one of my possible ancestors. I couldn't really find the page to get the words exactly correct, but what he basically said is, "There is so much crap art out there. And what's the point of being an amateur artist?"
      That quote has never left my mind; and sadly, it inspires me to delete all my drawings, new and old, off of deviantART. It's always plain and justifiably unappreciated. I think I'll stick to what I do best - writing poetry, and uploading pictures my mom and brother take and allow me to upload. I'll still be a member, and I'll still have almost everything; but the pictures I drew that I hate so much... Nobody cares for them, not even me. Why should I keep them?
      Hell, even my poetry and photography go unappreciated. Truth be told I don't know why I didn't delete my account. I guess because I've had it for more than half a decade...I tend to get sentimental.
      Okay! That's enough stalling for me. I've spent about 13 interspersed years behind my computer screen. Pathetic, right? Time to work out. Or pass out trying. I'm not obese; I'm just not fit. I want to change that. Again, if anybody can do it, so can I.
      Addendum: Whoa! Sorry this is so long. If you've made it to the end, thank you so so much for sticking around!