losing SERENDIPITY

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name:
Feel free to address me as Serendipity

pronounciation:
Cat got your tongue? Sair-en-dip-it-ee. Any easier?

alias:
It’s not like I have anyone to address me any differently. So, really, none.

age:
I’ve been losing myself lately, so I’d have to say three. Maybe four?

gender:
Do I really look feminine to you? You’re looking at a brute, sir.

breed:
I’ll be willing to bet you’ve never heard of an Akbash. Look at me before you forget.

appearance:

You know, before I met Zephyr, before I changed, I could have described myself from nose to tail-tip in such vivid detail, the blind could see me. I could have rambled on and on because I was so in love with myself, such a narcissist. Oh, look, my elegant pelt. Don’t you just love the handsome brown depths of my eyes? But now…now I don’t even know what to say. I don’t care. It just doesn’t matter how I appear to you, how I appear to myself. Not anymore.

I’m simply white. I won’t go into the gory details. Not of the “pure, snow white coloration of my pelt”, not even my “billowing tufts of fur”. I’m simply white. Is that not enough? If you ask someone, “What color is that dog?” is it necessary to say, “Oh, that dog is a lush, pure, ivory color, with a silky smooth coat, one so gorgeous it billows out in the wind,”? No. “The dog is white,” That’s all. Maybe my former self would have listed all of that nonsense. But I’m just white now. After all, I’m an Akbash, a breed that generally is white.

I generally fit into breed standards. Though I was the runt of my litter as a puppy, I’ve grown into the muscle, height, and build described for my breed. All this means is that I’m roughly three feet at the shoulder, and a little over a hundred pounds total. My breed is generally large, and I am no exception to that rule. I am neither stronger, nor weaker than anticipated by Akbash breeders. I am not classified as taller or shorter, heavier, or lighter than average. I am what is to be expected, nothing more.

And yet, what else is there to say? Chocolate orbs, a black nose…the usual floppy ears. I have no marks that make me stand out. Is it not peculiar enough to see a purebred running down the road, no collar in sight? I am simple. I am average. I am nothing out of the ordinary. I’m just plain white.

personality:

Perhaps as a child, you might have experienced a stage in your life in which you found yourself wanting to be someone other than who you are. Maybe the kid across the street was everything you thought you should be: tall, strong, popular, handsome, brave, outgoing. And you’d be the one treading in each of his shoeprints, copying everything he did, just trying to become half as good as he was. But sooner or later you’d realize that it’s almost impossible to change who you really are, or what you stand for. You are what you are, and that’s what defines you as you.

But it’s not so impossible that it can’t happen. I changed. I’m different. Does that make me not me anymore? I don’t know. I can’t even tell. But it doesn’t happen just like that. It’s not like you see someone and then totally change yourself on your own accord. And it’s not a good thing either. You want your personality to be consistent and reliable, but certain…events can change who you are for better or for worse.

I used to be a whole lot of things. A clean-freak. A know-it-all. An arrogant bastard. I take that back: I can still be an arrogant bastard, actually. I used to be prejudiced against mutts. Now I just hate everyone. No matter if you’re a purebred, or a mutt, or who knows what else, you’re an asshole. Remember that. I’d always had the impression that because I was…well, so pure, that I had an advantage over everyone. That’s the way I thought, the way I was. But it’s not like that anymore. Not after Zephyr.

I used to be a clean freak, too. Worrying about the way I looked, how clean my pelt was all the time. “First impressions are everything,” I once said to myself. After I rescued Callista from the river, wasn’t the first thing I thought how my pelt was going to come out in an hour? Now with my altered personality, if I fell in a mud puddle, I might just shrug it off. Who cared? No one really stops to comment on what you look like when you’re wandering the streets. I can’t even remember why it was so important to me before.

And yeah, like I said, I can still be a prissy bastard. I don’t even try to ignore it, try to tell myself I’m just being the way I’m meant to be. If you told me, “Hey, you’re a bitch!” I’d say, “Yeah, I am,” That’s who I am now. I’m straight-forward, and I could care less. Heck, it’s an improvement. About a year ago, I couldn’t of cared at all.

How much else do I need to tell you? Oh, I almost forgot to tell you: I’ve taken up the habit of losing my mind every so often! Well, what do you know? I’d like to thank Zephyr, and her fucked up mate for this one. My personality has seemed to inserted “insanity” within its boundaries, all because I can’t stop thinking about the past, of what was, of what could be. Of revenge. It’s been driving me absolutely mad, lately. No matter what I do, I just can’t focus on what’s happening now. I’m always imagining something totally bizarre, something off the wall you would never think about. And it’s all the same, it all just revolves around Zephyr, Zephyr, Zephyr! It’s like nothing else exists.

Maybe nothing does exist. Nothing except me. Me, myself, and I. And Zephyr.

history:

Once upon a time, a little girl in a red hood lived in a cozy cottage beside the woods. Her mother, a sweet, jolly woman with a charming smile, informed her to take a bright picnic basket filled with goodies to her grandmother’s house, who lived not but half a mile into the cheery forest beside their home. Putting the red hood over her head, she hummed as she skipped down the drive and into the daffodil laden wood, basket in arm. And then a whole bunch of crap happened, and in the end, the little girl ate a wonderful picnic with her grandma, her mom, and some random woodcutter. The end.

Your history is a story. Stories, are your history. This is a wonderful tale, that of a bright little girl who ends up living happily ever after. Yes, this is a story. No, this is not my history. Yes, I did say stories were your history. No, I did not say history’s stories were like this. To put it bluntly, histories are made up of cruel, cold hatred, sadness, misery, sorrow, and any other word resembling that of the ones already listed. When you’re dead and gone and put your history all together, it will not in any way, shape, or form, resemble the story of the girl in the red hood. Some stories don’t make up your history.

If you’d like to hear my story, instead of curling up in your candlelit bedroom under your covers, you may sit on a hard wood floor and suck your thumb to ease your pain. Once upon a time, there was a pretty little puppy mill. In the pretty (fucked up) little puppy mill, there were pretty little doggies. The pretty little doggies lived in a two by two foot, pretty little cage with four other pretty little doggies. One day, a mama pretty little doggy, had a pretty little litter of four. But the pretty little (assholes) mill owners didn’t like the pretty little litter, so they threw the pretty little litter out onto the pretty little street, in a pretty little box, on one pretty bleak night in the pretty depressing rain.

So the pretty little doggies starved for a week in the pretty little box, soaked with pretty depressing rain. And each of the pretty little doggies escaped the pretty little box, to start their own pretty little lives. But the runt of the litter of pretty little white puppies couldn’t get out of the pretty little box until it was pretty almost dead. But thankfully, the pretty little puppy escaped with another pretty little puppy named Vira.

The two pretty little puppies loved each other very much. They went everywhere in the world together, skipping, being merry, and smiling all day in the (damned) sunshine. But it just so happened the pretty little puppy named Vira and the pretty white puppy realized that they were growing apart, so they left each other to restart their pretty little lives. So the pretty little white puppy decided that (life was bullshit) he didn’t like mutts like the pretty little puppy named Vira. Henceforth, the pretty little puppy grew arrogant (and turned into a bastard).

Putting aside the words “pretty” and “little”, I fell in love with a retriever called Zephyr after rescuing her from a dog-napper on the boardwalk. We had only just told each other of our love when I found her cheating on me with another called Kayne. Upon asking her to choose, she stepped toward Kayne instead of myself, leaving me crushed and a shadow of my former self. I morphed into someone I barely knew, a heap of bones that barely lived outside the dark thoughts of Zephyr that continuously haunted my forsaken mind.

The end.