Famous

My fourth grade teacher told me I would be a famous author someday. He used to call me a perfect student because I'd write down everything he said. I was only doing it to be more like Hermione.

My dad told me I would be a famous singer someday. Every time my mom got on the phone to speak to my kindergarten teacher I'd be singing operatically in the background. "Who's singing?" Mrs. Thomas would ask. One day I was humming emphatically as I washed my hands in the bathroom sink. When I opened the bathroom door my dad was bent over, his ear near the keyhole, listening to me hum. "That sounded great," he said.

My mom told me I could make it big if only I had a manager. Just tonight, while we watched a man who stutters get accepted to Hollywood on American Idol. "You could do things with that voice of yours."

But I sit here and I write in my bedroom and I sing to my cats and I hardly ever revise or share anything.
No one cares because I don't care to let them see, and that's all on me. I think I might be depressed. And also lazy.