Paphro's Journal: Thursday

THURSDAY

--Journal, 

Hey. I don’t know if the way I’m to write this is supposed to be like a letter to a pen pal or an imaginary friend or something. I’d call you a diary, but then again, there always has been a difference between a diary and a journal. Diary. Sounds like something a girl would call you; I don’t see any flowers or unicorns on you though. You’re a thick hardback book with 80 leaves and a plain brown cover heavily indented with the word, “Journal”. I’m not a creep, or a little boy, so I won’t call you ‘Sam’ or ‘Kyle’ or whatever little boys call their not-so-concrete friends. I’ll call you “Journal”, and I’d like to imagine that if you had the feelings, you’d like it that way.

I was born seventeen years ago. My name’s Paphro by the way. I was born as Epaphroditus. Shocking, isn’t it? Epaphroditus. There’s well over a hundred names in the Bible for my parents to have picked from. Yet they picked “Epaphroditus”. So many popular Bible names, cute ones, attractive ones. However, Mom and Dad chose to dig a little deeper to find a name for their second son. I guess that’s symbolic, come to think of it. Anyone’s first impression of me would be completely inaccurate, because to know the real me, you need to dig deep. Real deep.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing in you, don’t you? Dr. Dawson’s my therapist, and he recommended me writing in a diary to ease my pains. Let me explain.

I graduated from High School a couple months back. Amy was valedictorian. I didn’t think I could be any prouder than my girlfriend than I already was, but at that moment, I was prouder of her than I think I’ll ever be of anything. Amy drove us to the after-party at Collins Parker’s house, somewhere in Hilly County-- his dad’s mansion is huge! Anyway, Amy and I got drunk quite early. 

I don’t think I’ll ever stop blaming myself. I should have stayed sober enough to drive her home, but I wasn’t. I hitched a ride with Danny Thompson, but Danny wasn’t leaving till late and Amy wasn’t willing to leave her car at Collins’ house. Soon enough, I left her to go talk to Louie, one of my best friends since kindergarten. She’d driven off in her car before I even noticed she’d left. 

The news got to everyone quick. There had been an accident not too far from The Parker Mansion, car identified to be Amy’s. She had crashed into a parked truck and died. Died. Amy was dead. Gone. Just like that. Her whole future ahead of her—the universities lined up, her family—us. Everything down the drain. I locked myself in my room for weeks. Mom and Dad tried getting me to talk. Even Pharrell did. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone; didn’t they get that? I eventually came out, walked into the kitchen and grabbed a sharp knife. Mom found me.

We went to Dr. Dawson the next day, and the day after that, every day for a month. He calmed me. He helped me get through the grief. After two months, and Amy’s funeral, I was better. I was talking again, falling back into my old self, as Mom put it. 

Last week Dr. Dawson suggested I get a journal to help me sift through my emotions. I wasn’t willing at first, I will tell you that. Eventually I picked one out of a random bookshop, paid for it, and here we are!

I’ll admit, this is quite soothing. It’s like a burden being slowly lifted off my shoulders with every word I write. It’s night now. You know, I took a gap year from College. This year has been—a lot, and I need some time to clear the air of my thoughts.

Mom and Dad went on a date today. Is that too much information? Maybe. Pharrell dumped his girlfriend last night. Something about her not having enough time for him, blah blah blah. I wasn’t really paying attention. He was talking loudly on his phone which is really saying something because his room is all the way down the hallway from mine. I couldn't help but sigh. Dumping her on the phone? He's so going to regret this later.

Since my gap year began, I've spending most of my time watching series. No, it isn’t cliché. Unlike most people, I have a deeper yearning to understand the characters. I don’t think that’s creepy. I just think that’s the way I manifest my love for Hollywood. I want to act one day. I’m not bad at it, either. You could call me a budding Will Smith. Then again, it’s said ‘never to toot your own horn’. 

I said I want to act, but not just any role. For instance, I don’t think I could ever play the role of a cocky jock. I have the body type (duh, did I forget to mention I was quarterback once?) and all, but that’s just not me. I’m more of an action movie antihero, or even a serial killer.

You know, I always have had this passion for dark comedies. Insatiable and Corpse Bride, for instance. I don’t know why, but I have this in-born attraction to any movie with a suicide or murder scene or whatever. No, I’m not depressed. At least, not anymore. That’s just who I am. I like portrayals of the dark stuff. It creates awareness, I guess. Saves lives. Or not.

It’s a dream of mine to star in a musical. Don’t judge! I just…really like singing. I’m no singer, but my voice is okay enough for any choir. I’ve never seen a musical in person, anyways. I always ask Mom; she’s into musicals too, though more of a fangirl than an actress, but she just never has the time, especially these days. She tries to hide it, but I can tell the stress of being a lawyer is really getting to her. 

I’ve got to stop writing now. Dad’s watching Acrimony in the living room, and I need to get down there before Taraji’s crazy scene. I…enjoyed this. It was liberating. Until later, Journal.

--Paphro.