Time you enjoy wasting, is not wasted. -John Lennon
My step mother often wondered why I prefered to write and read more than going out and being with the neighborhood kids.
Gee. The neighborhood kids, for the most part, were undisciplined hooligans. I was smarter and more sensitive than they were, and they knew it. They chose to single me out, like a lion takes out the weaker antelope.
That and the fact is everyone in town knew I was abandoned. And, as much as it pains me to say it, not many people tolerated my dad. Or even wanted to. Long story, and it isn’t mine to tell. I’ll just say that I have a love/unlove relationship with my father. There are so many good qualities he has, but there are a few less desirable qualities.
I don’t want it to sound like my childhood was horrible. I’m not here to bitch about it, either. It had its bad moments, but it was pretty much the stereotypical American childhood, with its own unique ups and downs.
I enjoy wasting time writing and reading. It quite probably saved my life, ergo it wasn’t truly wasted.