• Well, I don’t know how to start this. I never talked about any of this, and this is the first time I wrote about my life. Usually I wouldn’t bother with biographies cuz I feel only arrogant assholes wrote about themselves, since they think they’re so high and mighty. Well I guess I could start off with my Name. Ryan Black, I have my mom’s last name, even though she gave me up for adoption when I was three. I only got to keep a single photo of her. She was leaning against a abandoned factory, her skin as white as a ghost, her eyes bluer than blue. She had long blond hair that went past her shoulders, and a black hoody that looked way too big for her. I knew I was a bigger mistake than usual, cuz I’m Mexican. My dad “disconnected” with his family, cutting out my mom from his life too. I would write out what that means, but if this get’s published it’s probably best that I don’t.

    Damn, the first paragraph I wrote yesterday is still here, so I guess I’ll keep writing. Usually people suggest that if you were to write a biography, you’d start out with the earliest memory you can remember, but I don’t want to do that. I can remember a good portion of my early days anyways, I don’t know how but I do. I think I’ll write about St. Teresa’s, the place I stayed until I was 13. It was a nice small place, except the building was in pretty crappy condition, and it was by a pretty bad neighborhood. At night, hell by day the sirens would echo daily, at night they usually kept me up when everybody else was asleep. The flashes of red and blue would speed down the streets, and seemed to stretch across the wall in my room, but the same second it appears, it’s already gone, wailing all the way to its destination. The nuns were nice though, except they didn’t like it when I asked too many questions about their faith. I could understand though, but I didn’t like it when they acted like they knew everything because of their faith. I only had a couple friends down there worth remembering. One of them was Billy Gnosis. All the other kids picked on him constantly, except when he was hanging around me. I was the oldest on there around the time, only by a couple of years. He would read by a tree in the back, right by his small garden where he was trying to grow these beautiful blue flowers. Me and another friend, Michelle Thomas, helped him out cuz the kids were constantly trying to destroy them. However shortly after I left I got a letter by Michelle explaining how the kids were messing with Billy all over again, and how one went so far as to burning his garden. She even wrote how a single flower survived the fire, but Billy plucked it and crushed it in his own hand, and hasn’t said a word since. I always wonder how he’s doing, today all I can do is hope things took a change for the better. He was really good for his age, he really was.

    Damn I miss Michelle and Billy. It’s been years since I seen them. I haven’t left Billy since the day I left St. Teresa’s, and I wish I could go and see him so I don’t have to stay up all night questioning where he is, and how he’s doing. As for Michelle… knowing what happened to her is a curse. I wish I WOULD be questioning where she was, and how she’s doing, instead of knowing the condition she is in now. Damn it really depresses the hell out of me. You know I remember this time, like when I was ten and she was eight, these eggs were nested on the gutters of the roof, and the little douche bags were throwing rocks to knock them down. Only one fell, But instead of yolk coming out, you could see the fetus, you know the little bird and all, and I swear to you it developed right in front of my and Michelle’s eyes. It cried out, and me and Michelle took it by the tree, wrapped it around one of my socks, and tried feeding it bread crumbs and milk. When it was time to head back in, Michelle took it to her room, to keep it warm and try feeding it whenever it cried out, but the cry was really weak and quiet, so nobody noticed. The next morning Michelle came up to me, and she had a really somber look on her face. She was holding the sock gently, and I moved it a little and saw that the baby bird was dead. One of the sisters than came up, and asked what was wrong. She than screamed hysterically when she saw what Michelle was holding, and told her to drop it. Michelle screamed that the baby was dead, and I asked the sister all serious like if we could bury it in the back yard. She said yes please; just keep it away from her and the other kids. Well we buried it near the tree, and had a couple twigs make the grave, like a cross. When we came back inside, the sister made us wash our hands vigorously. I laugh sometimes, when I remember the look on the sister’s face when she saw the dead bird, but also depresses the hell out of me when I think about the grave. But its memories like these that makes living worth it.

    Last night I couldn’t sleep again. I just stood outside, smoking square after square. I ponder a lot of things when I’m outside, like why out of all people in the orphanage do I get off so easily? This autobiography is due tomorrow… I could talk about how I was never adopted, and how I found a roommate to live with in Chicago, and how I found my mom living not to far off where I lived. Her name was Sarah, and I know she was my mom cuz she looked so much like herself in the photo, and her last name was Black. She still lived with her parents, and never got into another relationship. There I learned more about why My dad left, which was in pursuit for knowledge in a religion my mom disapproved of, and he was apparently too immature to raise a child. Sarah couldn’t do it on her own, and her parent’s wouldn’t have any part in it, so after a few years she gave me up for adoption. It was kind of awkward being there, cuz her parents, well MY grandparents, was all nice and welcoming until she mentioned their support, than they tried avoiding my eyes. You could tell it was awkward for Sarah too, since every three words were interrupted by an “um” and she kept shifting her position on the sofa as if she were uncomfortable. I told her about the different places that I lived in, St. Taresa’s and Roswell during my teenage years. I told her the people who took care of me well, but that my peers were douche bags. Especially at Roswell, there the gangs messed with me constantly. Except I didn’t give my mom details, I didn’t want her to fell too guilty.

    That’s all I’m going to write. My roommate Desire thinks I should publish it as a novel, so people won’t think it’s an autobiography. Actually I think I’ll write a novel about Desire, and yes “Desrie” is his name. He told me about his childhood, and how he got his name. But everybody has their own story, some are hard to believe, others can have many connections with other people. But I honestly think we are all connected. We all must’ve met somehow, in someway. You know it’s not important how our friends are at this moment, you can’t cling on them forever, Hell, and even the memories will fade away, their names and eventually how they look. But, as long as you remember the impact they had on their life, as long as you still feel their embrace, than they are never gone. They’ll never disappear. Which is why should tell somebody everything, so that you’ll never forget anybody. Bleh that was cheesy, I have to get off this computer now before I get worse