This is not a Journal

Dear Diary, It's been a decade since anyone's given you the time of day, so I figured, why not dust you off and give you a whirl? So, hi, I'm Star Abott, the superhero everyone loves to love. But between you and me, being a superhero isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure, I've got the powers, the cape, and all that jazz, but it's caused me more aches and pains than a bad burrito. Now, here I am, a fully-fledged adult with the mental age of a kid, scribbling away as an author instead of duking it out with villains. I may be 21 on paper, but this diary's about to take us on a whirlwind tour of the last seven years of my life. Let's just say, a lot's gone down in that time, and if you're looking to catch up, you'll need to buckle up for a rollercoaster ride. But hey, don't worry; I promise to keep it short and oh-so-painful. 7 years ago, I was just your average awkward little teenage girl, shuffling along with my friends on the way to school, babbling about anything and everything under the sun. Our conversations were like a mixed bag of candy—no rhyme or reason, just whatever popped into our heads at the time. One moment, we'd be dissecting Panic! At the Disco lyrics; the next, we'd be debating whether Goku could take on Superman in a fight. Once inside the school, it was like I had a target on my back for every teacher in the place. I was their favorite student, for better or for worse. On one hand, I aced every test they threw at me, making them proud. But on the other hand, I had a knack for turning the chemistry lab into a makeshift volcano, much to their dismay. Let's just say, I had a talent for mixing things up—both academically and explosively. Fast forward to mid-morning in history class, and I was, struggling to keep my eyes open. I must've phased out for a moment because the next thing I knew, the teacher was standing right in front of me, and my classmates were giving me a round of applause. Yep, you guessed it—the classic "clap when someone wakes up in class" prank. But let me tell you, the teacher was not amused. She shot me a stern look and promptly instructed me to meet her at the guidance office after dismissal. And just like that, I became the talk of the school—Star, the infamous nap-taker. After enduring seven periods of class, I embarked on the dreaded walk of shame to the guidance office. The principal welcomed me with all the warmth of a polar vortex (not). What followed was a five-minute serving of full-blown screaming and finger-pointing directed squarely at my face. Let's just say, it wasn't the most pleasant experience. And to top it all off, I was handed a letter instructing me to call my parents and have them come down to the school. Feeling pretty low after the guidance office debacle, I rallied my troops—aka my loyal and ever-supportive friends—and we hit up the mall. We strolled through the aisles, ogling all the goodies we'd buy if we were swimming in cash. Ah, to have some of those sweet Abraham Lincoln portraits in our pockets! After our window-shopping adventure, we treated ourselves to a much-needed pick-me-up: ice cream. Because let's face it, nothing heals a bruised ego quite like a scoop (or three) of our favorite flavors. It was just what the doctor ordered to lift our spirits and remind us that no matter what life throws our way, there's always room for a little sweetness. As the day wound down, my friends and I bid each other farewell and headed our separate ways. But before I could even set foot inside my house, I was met at the front door by my parents, who were armed with the news of my latest escapade. Cue another riveting round of screaming and finger-pointing that seemed to go on for an eternity. Eventually, the storm passed, and we settled down for dinner. Mom had whipped up her signature steak, perfectly seasoned and grilled to perfection, while Dad cracked open a couple of cold ones and flipped on the TV to watch some ancient game show that apparently never went out of style. And so, as we sat around the table, digging into our meal and exchanging stories of our day, it dawned on me that some things never change—like Mom's cooking, Dad's taste in television, and the timeless tradition of family dinners filled with love, laughter, and just a hint of chaos. Feeling drained after what felt like an eternity of a day, I decided it was high time to call it quits and hit the hay. So, with heavy eyelids and a weary heart, I trudged upstairs to my room and... ------- just like that, we're back to square one, embarking on the same old routine of walking to school with my trusty band of friends, chatting away about the most nonsensical topics imaginable. It's like déjà vu all over again, except this time, with a fresh dose of caffeine and a renewed sense of determination to tackle whatever the day throws our way. As I trudged into class, I had zero expectations for the day ahead. Little did I know, this seemingly ordinary day would turn out to be a "life changing" in my dumb 21 years of existence. We kicked things off with everyone's favorite subject straight from the depths of hell: Calculus. Seriously, who decided we needed to spend our precious time finding the equal values of this or that? I mean, when was the last time anyone used those skills in real life? If I'm doing the dishes, am I supposed to bust out the ol' "x" and start solving equations? Because last time I checked, "x" was the mortal enemy of any sane person, unless you happen to be some divine being with a knack for finding the elusive "x." With my brain on autopilot and my eyes glued to the clock, I endured Calculus class by mentally calculating how many minutes were left until freedom. Finally, the bell rang, and we shuffled over to Chemistry class. To my dismay, it seemed my reputation as the lab's resident troublemaker had caught up to me. Instead of our usual lab grub, we found ourselves crammed into our regular classroom, much to the chagrin of our fuming teacher. Clearly still reeling from my previous mishap, she was determined to keep her precious equipment out of harm's way—at least for the time being. So, it was back to the basics of Chemistry in the confines of our ordinary classroom, where the only explosions we'd be witnessing were the ones happening inside our teacher's brain. Fifteen minutes into Chemistry class and everything seemed to be going surprisingly smoothly. I managed to whip up a batch of elephant toothpaste without setting off any alarms—literal or metaphorical. But just as we were settling into the groove, that dreaded bell rang out, sending a chill down our spines—the fire alarm. We turned to our teacher, hoping it was just a routine drill, but his puzzled expression told us otherwise. With no time to spare, we grabbed our belongings and bolted for the nearest exit, the taste of adrenaline tingling on our tongues. As we spilled out into the chaos of the hallway, smoke began to cloud our vision, adding to the sense of urgency pulsing through our veins. We joined the throng of panicked students streaming towards the fire exit, only to realize with a sinking feeling that our school had just one measly escape route. Seriously, could our school cut corners any harder? Come on, folks, let's give a round of applause for the brilliant minds behind that decision. Amidst the chaos, the inevitable happened—stampede. Before I knew it, I was knocked to the ground, gasping for air amidst a sea of panicked faces. I tried to muster the strength to get up, but my body refused to cooperate. With the heat of the flames licking at my heels, I closed my eyes and hoped against hope that this nightmare would soon come to an end. As my vision gradually cleared, I was greeted by the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room. Well, scratch the whole "great beyond" scenario—I was definitely still in the land of the living. Taking stock of my surroundings, I realized I was hooked up to a variety of medical contraptions, which, I gotta say, weren't exactly the latest fashion accessory. But hey, I was alive and kicking, so no complaints there. Except, of course, for the throbbing pain in my left elbow, which was now encased in a less-than-fashionable cast. Oh joy, just what I needed—a constant reminder of my fiery escapade. But all things considered, I was okay. Alive, slightly worse for wear, but definitely okay. I tried testing out my other hand to see if it was working like a Computer starting up. But something weird and f'ed up happened. Don't scratch completely the "great beyond" scenario as my damn hand is shining. Like shining really, I don't know if some evil doctors decided to put a flashlight on my wrist but my hand is shining. With a mixture of disbelief and growing alarm, I stared at my luminous appendage, half expecting it to sprout wings and take flight at any moment. But alas, no such luck. Just me, lying in a hospital bed with a cast on one arm and a shining hand on the other. As I lay there, contemplating the surreal turn of events, a glimmer of doubt crept into my mind. Was this just another twisted dream, a bizarre figment of my imagination conjured up by my subconscious? But before I could entertain that thought any further, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the silence of the room. In walked a team of white-coated doctors, their expressions a mix of concern and professionalism. As they went about their routine checks, my glowing hand returned to its normal, mundane state, much to my relief. Perhaps I wasn't destined to become the next superhero sensation after all—just your average, run-of-the-mill hospital patient with a knack for attracting the bizarre. And just like that, life resumed its normal course, with doctors fussing over my vitals and kindly offering me food to replenish my strength. Maybe, just maybe, this whole glowing hand thing was nothing more than a fluke—a strange anomaly in an otherwise ordinary day. But then again, in my world, anything was possible. As my parents finally caught up with me at the hospital, the air was thick with a mixture of relief and concern. They enveloped me in tight hugs, their embraces a comforting reminder of the love and support that surrounded me—even in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. For a fleeting moment, as we exchanged words of reassurance and affection, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness deep within my heart. These hugs, these kisses—they would be the last I ever received from them before my life took a drastic turn and I embarked on my journey as a reluctant superhero. After the hospital deemed me fit to leave, we made our way back home, the hospital scene fading into the background and yes this is my diary, I can do whatever I want so... Back in the comfort of my own home, my friends wasted no time in pampering me with homemade comfort food and a Netflix marathon. As we lounged on the couch, indulging in our guilty pleasures, the events of the day seemed like a distant memory—almost as if they had never happened at all. But as the evening wore on and the atmosphere grew more relaxed, my friends couldn't help but pry into what had transpired at the hospital. Yet, despite their curiosity, I found myself hesitating to divulge the details. Some things were better left unsaid, at least for now. We continued on with the marathon and things are just going well. Let's forget the time where I got trapped in the chaos of fire with my hand shining like I'm some sort of an angel. As I stepped into the classroom the next day, I was greeted with an unexpected chorus of cheers and applause from my classmates. It was as if I had just won some kind of award, rather than narrowly escaping a fiery stampede. Even my teacher joined in the celebration, enveloping me in a bear hug that threatened to squish the life out of me—cast and all. I managed to wriggle free from her vice-like grip, albeit with a wince of pain from my tender elbow. But hey, it was the thought that counted, right? Besides, I couldn't fault her enthusiasm for wanting to express her relief at my safe return. With a nod from our teacher, we reluctantly shuffled off to Calculus, where the joys of mathematical equations awaited us (not). But as I settled into my seat, casting a glance at my still-throbbing elbow, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of gratitude for the unexpected outpouring of support from my classmates and teacher. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a silver lining to be found amidst the chaos after all. As the next few periods dragged on in a blur of monotony, I found myself eagerly anticipating the much-needed reprieve of lunchtime. With a growling stomach and low expectations, I made my way to the cafeteria, where I was greeted with a culinary masterpiece that could only be described as... questionable. Cold pizza served with a side of hot salad and scalding soup—a trifecta of food chaos that defied all logic and reason. But hunger knows no bounds, and I resigned myself to digging in, despite the dubious quality of my meal. After all, beggars can't be choosers, right? Seated amongst my friends, we delved into the ol' and classic topic of teenage gossip, with one boy's secret crush on my friend taking center stage. And as any group of girls can attest, when love is in the air, excitement is sure to follow. But just as we were getting into the juicy details, a sudden interruption stole the spotlight—my shining hand. My friend's puzzled gaze fell upon my glowing appendage, prompting a hasty attempt on my part to conceal it from prying eyes. Unfortunately, my efforts were in vain, as the radiant glow persisted, drawing the attention of not only my friends, but even a curious teacher. In a desperate attempt to deflect attention, I fumbled for an explanation, blaming the phenomenon on a nonexistent flashlight and urging my friend to keep quiet. But as the truth began to dawn on me, I couldn't help but wonder: what on earth was happening to me? But as I sat there, hand aglow and nerves frayed, I couldn't help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. After all, who needs a flashlight when you've got a hand that shines brighter than a disco ball?