I have one of those faces. That if you saw me in the street, you’d know that you know me but you’d never quite figure out my name or how you know me. Cue the quickly averted gaze and pondering mind. I am sorry to say but I am forgettable. I am one of those chicks you attended highschool with, we might’ve hung out once or twice. I attended dance class with you for a year or so. We even sat right next to each other and shared a laugh. Like an autumn leave, just begging to be noticed, just a gust of wind blows me past you. Still enough for a moment of recognition but never enough for “Oh, she played a significant role in my life”
I don’t want to be the one who told you to not have that abortion, I don’t want to be your-behind-the-screen friend and I sure as hell don’t want to be that kin from now the other day.
I would like you to remember my name. I would like you to have a decent recount of how you know me. Not just that kin who had one too many berks on school.
I’ve always felt that I was never one of those. Those, that 10 years down the line, could confidently say I had 100% genuine experiences. I fucked it up. Most of it. I was too much all of the time. Too much of everything and I think people just ended up feeling sorry for me. I never made the best of anything, I took advantage. I don’t have any friends. I don’t know how to make friends. I am 28, a single mom and for the most part, I fucked up.
When you see me, all 1.49m and 80 + kg’s of me, I hope you stop and reminisce of only the worthy traits. How I made you laugh on highschool or how I was always that one friend who would defend you even if it meant I landed up worse off. I hope that you remember me.
People always ask me what my worst fear is and it’s not death. It’s that in dying, at my funeral, at my last rememberance, the pews will be empty, filled only by the obligatory family, not attending for respect but for food.