Excerpt: Whack Bang Wiggle Wiggle: A Story of the Random Variety

Allow me to digress.

This could potentially be the most random story that you will ever, with your own two eyes (or, in some cases, perhaps just one, or maybe even none—who am I to judge?), read.

Of course, this statement brings about several very pressing questions. First and foremost—the one that is probably weighing the most on your brain at the moment—just why is that? I would say that it is safe to assume that you are thinking, “Why is this to potentially be the most random story I will ever set my own two (or one) eyes upon?”

The answer is quite simple. You see, life is not generally a set-in-stone kind of thing, with a particular plot line, a particular theme or script. Life happens as it happens, and if that means that two consecutive happenings have nothing to do with one another—well, who are we to criticize that? After all, have we not all, at one point, attempted to set down our lives on paper (figuratively or literally), attempted to sort out all the events, to make sense out of them? And does it ever work?

…Thus life is random. And, again, it is safe to assume that, being about a life—and a specific life in particular (mine)—this story has some great potential to be quite random. This assumption shall be aided by the fact that I shall not tell things as they are not, or were not, or were never to be.

I will tell them as they were—as they are—as they continue to be. That’s all, you see.

And so a second question is brought into the realm of consciousness—who are you? Well, honestly, I simply cannot answer. Because who knows you better than you do? I most certainly don’t. You’re on your own here. You’ve gotta figure it out yourself, ‘cause I can’t help ya.

And then there comes the third (and final) question: Who am I? (or, from your standing point, Who are you?)

This one I can answer (almost).

I am Magdalena Omoira Avila. I am an older sister—that should pretty much encompass everything. I hate the rain and I hate the town we live in and I hate my school and I hate that I hate so much, but what can I do about it? When you’re dealt a crappy hand you do the best you can and get over yourself whenever you get the chance. I don’t get the chance. Therefore I don’t get over myself. Therefore I hate a lot of things. And I can’t do anything about it.

I have dirty blonde hair.

I have plain gray eyes

I am of average height, stature, nothing particular.

And I don’t know what my purpose is.

Here is precisely where I fall short in my answer of the aforementioned question—for I believe that no explanation of self is complete without an explanation of one’s purpose in life. And I have, as of yet, failed to discover mine. Sometimes I come close to despair, believing for fragile and painful moments that I have none whatsoever. Sometimes I imagine that it might be only to reign in my ridiculous younger sister, and those moments last longer and aren’t so bad.

But every once in awhile I wonder if my purpose isn’t just to make others’ lives miserable. Those moments hurt the worst. And sometimes they last for days.

I love to sing. And if the fact that I’m an older sister doesn’t wrap everything up in a big pretty red bow for you… that should. I love to sing.

I’m in the school choir, and it’s my safe haven.

Yes—perhaps the fact that I loved to sing so much was what got me into the whole big, random mess. That humongous, dreadful, beautiful, exciting mess that’s so difficult to talk about.

But the time has come.

Here goes nothing.