Lane Hawthorne
@AlwaysLacking
I've been neglecting the good things. I'm finding the light in the good things. I might need help to see the good things. 18+ RP
= the country...and not half bad, thankfully, though it was probably a little over the top. Either way, all I could do was cringe and =
= a stretch. Hispanic or Indian seemed too far fetched. So out sprang a conglomeration of everything I'd learned since first arriving in =
= suppose. Or Irish. I did a |terrible| Irish, practiced only at the sake of tasteless jokes. I could do Scottish, but that wasn't much of =
= much television, and internally, I was |completely| mortified, but what else was there to do? I could have tried for Southern, I =
= out of sheer |desperation|, springs this accent that's some hybrid of Brooklyn and New Jersey and the Kardashians and just...far too =
= which....I panicked! How was I supposed to deflect this-- :| Hi! How ya doin'? It's...good to finally speak to ya! |: Out of nowhere, =
= pair of headphones and...hastily thinking, drawing my quilt up over my head in a risky attempt at muffling the sound of my voice, =
= need for precedent when the call came in. I fumbled to mute my laptop before the abrasive ringtone chimed in, quickly plugging in a =
= when she heard my voice? But of course, we'd already moved over from Facebook messenger to chatting via Skype, so there really was no =
= Of course, it didn't occur to me until after I said this that I was royally screwed. |Screwed|. How was I supposed to retain anonymity =
= > "Yes." > "I mean, no." > "I mean, I wouldn't mind! I'd love to chat." Delete. Delete. Delete. "I'd love to talk." =
= home. So when @ImprisonedSight asked me if I was open to a phone call, I didn't hesitate. =
= You do what you must to feel like someone hears you, even if it's |not| you. I'd only been trying to do that for twenty three years back =
= that just made me realize how very alone I'd really been, how isolated. I understood how all of those Catfish came to be so deceptive. =
= more to me than she'd uttered in a year, and finally, |finally|, I felt like I had a |genuine| friend, someone I could |talk| to. And =
= commentary, though half of what she said still seemed to go over my head. Fake it till you make it. In the space of a month, she said =
= recounted what I'd seen of note to her later. In time, I found that I drew less research from the internet and provided more of my own =
= and sorrow and purpose. There seemed to be a story in every one, a real moment captured. And I didn't have to pretend so much as I =
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