That Awkward Moment Between Your Birth And Your Death
Here, Let Me Describe Myself A Little Bit For You
My parents are wealthy. My grandparents are wealthy. My great grandparents were wealthy. So on and so forth.
My birth into a privileged family has resulted in a life of smooth sailing as well as complete and utter ennui. I imagine that I was an intelligent embryo to pick that particular womb but it has backfired on me.
If I stood next to the rest of my family I’d look like a stranger photo-bombing the perfect family portrait. I’m different from my family in plenty of ways to begin with but I try to push it one step further because if I found myself sharing characteristics other than DNA with my siblings, I’d rush to Home Depot for rope. I’m different almost on purpose, but then again, it’s not that hard to differ from a mannequin.
We live in a house that could only be described as a ‘rich person’s’ house. It was white, it was huge, it had columns in the front, and it had a cliché-as-fuck, white picket fence. I roll my eyes whenever I walk through the front door.
I have a lovely name. Zola. Zo-Luh. Honestly…what even the hell is that supposed to be?
My parents didn’t name me. My eccentric Aunt Patty/my mother’s favorite person did. When my mother announced that she would be having a fifth child, my aunt simultaneously announced that she was a baby naming expert. The aforementioned adjective of eccentric to describe my aunt is not an exaggeration, she is really nuts. And since my mother handed over baby naming power to a crazy person, I’m cursed with this lovely name, Zola. Lucky for the four Whitmaker children born after me, Aunt Patty was not given that power again.
This is a mayday from Zola Whitmaker, the weird-as-fuck, number 5 out of 9, middle child.
My birth into a privileged family has resulted in a life of smooth sailing as well as complete and utter ennui. I imagine that I was an intelligent embryo to pick that particular womb but it has backfired on me.
If I stood next to the rest of my family I’d look like a stranger photo-bombing the perfect family portrait. I’m different from my family in plenty of ways to begin with but I try to push it one step further because if I found myself sharing characteristics other than DNA with my siblings, I’d rush to Home Depot for rope. I’m different almost on purpose, but then again, it’s not that hard to differ from a mannequin.
We live in a house that could only be described as a ‘rich person’s’ house. It was white, it was huge, it had columns in the front, and it had a cliché-as-fuck, white picket fence. I roll my eyes whenever I walk through the front door.
I have a lovely name. Zola. Zo-Luh. Honestly…what even the hell is that supposed to be?
My parents didn’t name me. My eccentric Aunt Patty/my mother’s favorite person did. When my mother announced that she would be having a fifth child, my aunt simultaneously announced that she was a baby naming expert. The aforementioned adjective of eccentric to describe my aunt is not an exaggeration, she is really nuts. And since my mother handed over baby naming power to a crazy person, I’m cursed with this lovely name, Zola. Lucky for the four Whitmaker children born after me, Aunt Patty was not given that power again.
This is a mayday from Zola Whitmaker, the weird-as-fuck, number 5 out of 9, middle child.