mikey.



THE BEST DECEPTIONS
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don't you see, don't you see,
that the charade is over?
and all the "best deceptions" and "clever cover story" awards go to you.
so kiss me hard
'cause this will be the last time that i let you.
you will be back someday
and this awkward kiss that tells of other people's lips will be of service
to keeping you away.
i heard about your regrets.
i heard that you were feeling sorry.
i heard from someone that you wish you could set things right between us.
well i guess i should have heard of them from you.
i guess i should have heard of them from you.




[07 Jun 2003|03:58pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

I never thought of myself as one to spill my thoughts out in a journal. No, the idea was always much too visionary for my tastes. The idea of transfering my hopes, dreams, what I enjoy, and what I despise for all who are curious to see is just not my thing.

My name is Mikey, and it's as simple as that. I answer to no other name. And to think, my real name isn't even Michael. It's Bryan Alexander Wasko. I'm nineteen years old, so it would be apparent to those who aren't slightly dense, or recognize me from my previous years here, that I failed my senior year.

I grew up in Chicago, Illinois, with my mother. I had no siblings, nor a man I was willing to call my father. We lived in a one-room apartment where various men would often stay, but never more than one at one time. My mom skipped from boyfriend to boyfriend, her mean-spirited nature often driving off the meanest of drunks. You see, she was bi-polar and didn't have any access to medication. The drinking didn't help, and neither did her coke habit. Many times I would lock her, or her boyfriend at the time out of the house. I was just a kid, I didn't know any better. All I knew is that if I locked myself in the bedroom, and hid underneath the bed with a blanket over me, i'd be rid of their constant bickering and obscenities just until he or she managed to bust the door open.

I was always a loner throughout my elementary and middle school years. I kept to myself, rarely speaking unless spoken to beforehand. The teachers saw me as hopeless, as i'd often 'forget' to do my homework, or bite another kid if they happened to touch me. I had issues with people touching me, ever since one of my mom's boyfriends put his hands on me when I was only 10. He didn't get too far, though. I was small, but I was tough. I managed to hold him off until my mom stumbled into the bedroom to see what was going on. Needless to say, I never saw him again. Anyway, I was pretty much paranoid after that incident, to say at the very least.

The subject of my real father was off-limits. From what i've collected, my mother worked as a prostitute in her early to late teens. Apparently, she was raped by a man in his thirties and I was the end result. Imagine that, me, the product of statutory rape. I can't say it bothers me, though. I just wish I could look that bastard in the eye one day, just to see what he looks like. I look nothing like my mother. Perhaps that's why she neglected me throughout my childhood -- it was too painful for her to look into my eyes, which resembled so much the man who burdened her for life? I don't know.

When I was 14, I was taken away. It's as simple as that. A social worker pulled me from my home, and it was months later that I learned it was an anonymous tip that had notified the agency of our living conditions. I saw nothing wrong with our apartment, seeing as I never knew anything besides that. Imagine that, dirt and filth are unhealthy. It seems that it slipped my mom's mind to let me know.

I was placed immediately into a foster home, my foster parents being Maria and Jakob. They were good people. However, I was sent away after it dawned upon them that they couldn't take care of 5 foster children on their own. Since I was still fairly new to the household, I guess it was easier for them to get rid of me instead of one of the kids they'd had for weeks to months to even a year. Still, Maria cried when it was time for me to leave. No one had ever cried over me in my entire life, and even though I kept an impassive look on my face, I still felt sad.

After that, I was in one more foster home, which after a year, became my permanent home. An elderly couple, Maxine and Joseph took me in as their second foster child, and "fell in love" with me, to put it in their words. They are a very loving couple, affectionate yet stern in their old-fashioned beliefs. Me and my 'sister', Kelly, were kept under constant watch. It was the first time I experienced the love of a family, and I was still rather.. bewildered.

And now, the story behind my name .. up until then, I was Bryan. Always had been. Well, Maxine was diagnosed with having Alzheimer's shortly after I arrived. As it progressed, she began slipping up, calling me "Mikey" after a dog she'd owned as a child. The name stuck, and soon I didn't even bother correcting her. I basically recognized it as my new identity. Fine with me, my real mom knew me as Bryan. I didn't want to be Bryan anymore, and it seemed only proper that with my new life, comes a new name.

There's not much more I can, or should say. I was sent to Dover Academy when I was 17, a senior. I had attended a public school before that, but problems erupted and my parents thought it would be best if I was sent to a private school. I had begun hanging out with the wrong crowd, and delving into drugs, though they don't know all that. No worries, though. I'm clean, it was only a phase I was going through. I was just beginning to feel comfortable with my new surroundings and let my guard down long enough to make friends and make wrong decisions.

Anyhow. You can contact me at kill your mikey.

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