Levin Ferdinand

My story isn't tragic, and for the most part, it serves as uninteresting, but I think that, seeing as I am on a website where writers ask to be friends and share their work and reveal secrets in that and coincidentally the: "About Me" box, I should probably fit some description into my own. Honestly, I haven't written or read much for a while, but I want that to change this new year as much as Christians believe in God. Onto that subject, I have no religion, and puzzle at those who do with curiosity and amusement. I love their effort and mind-consumption in one topic, but haven't found a topic for myself to "ring true," as you might say... and catch my daily attention. I hoped that Writers Cafe could be that for me(as I think a friend said of herself: "writing is her religion"), could set me straight, which is a stupid idea but one of the "ring true" s. I currently live in Arizona as a presently non-pregnant, dating teen. I wake up in the morning to see my hands-on messy lair where the crickets and worms are the books and I am a leopard gecko hungry but in wait of eating them all up. This is a well-known annalogy that I tried to twist into my own, but it is all I have because it fits this situation perfectly...the predator is the reader, the books are the food. By then, you can relate to the sign on the door of Mo's studio in Funke's Ink Heart, where the ways to comprehend a book's message are delivered. I have been spoiled since birth, and sometimes that bothers me because I see those who haven't been, those who still surpass me with intellegence and skills using what they have, everything that they have, and I feel jealous but grateful. Those are the people who have pulled me out of 'couch-potato' schedules time and again into an active world, the world where I can either sit on the couch of my parents in my thirties and forties, like some, or I can get out there and scream a developing mind into Earth's core! Of course, that probably wouldn't do much. My voice and self would melt in the face of gas, but I believe that I can, figuratively, withstand that gas ball the more that I read and write. Those who make me realize that I can do more are those I look up to. But, don't commit suicide for being a couch-potato, it's not all bad, just disappointing to me at the end of the day when I realize that my laundry isn't done, and it's me and no one else to blame. I am a lazy spirit, but I love words....well, that is and over-statement. They taunt me a lot, and that gets on cracked nerves; they jump and bite at my tight stomach but they are still charming, in a way. They make me jump into the activity that others mention my brain should be the host of. They get my heart beating fast, and my mouth drooling determination. They will never be fully mine, and yet that is the beauty of them. They are my ragged soul, (which if you caught on I do not fully possess either), and throughout what I will describe, I hope you like it, and find a giggle, chuckle or laugh in your chest for I hope to be partially a comedian even in the really gruesome instances...