Who's ready for Fun Time with SilverBeams? I know I am!

Ok, big disclaimer before I start: THIS IS NOT TO GET ATTENTION! I am not expecting people to crowd the comments, telling me how great I am and oh you're so talented or whatever. You guys don't even have to say anything. Again, not fishing for compliments here. Just getting this on digital paper.

Well, here goes nothing. Time to bare my soul. Good luck. (Not sure if that's the right bare, but whatever).

I'm one in a family of four. I have a little sister, a mom, a dad, two cats and a dog. My parents are both paleontologists, and my sister wants to be a zoologist. Me? I want to be an animator, or an author if I get lucky. I love art and being creative, although I never liked physical projects. I was the odd one out, and I enjoyed that so, so much. That was before my sister started reading as well, developing a vocabulary my parents say could rival mine. That was before she started making detailed short stories also, writing on a little cylinder for a school project. She's better than an eight year old should be.

Before that, I wanted to be a singer. People told me I had a nice voice, and I still love singing. But my sister also has a nice voice. Great.

As you can see, I have a not-so-tiny identity problem. In middle school, it was almost better. I was considered "smart", I started my first real book in seventh and eighth grade, I had friends, and none of them really enjoyed writing and reading as much as I did. Only one boy I met, and with him, it was a common ground we had, not a problem.

Then came a friend of mine, who's pretty close to me now. Not that she would admit it if a robber pulled a gun to her head and ordered her to, but she's smart--most likely smarter than me. She wrote a book with her friend as well, longer than mine and certainly far better (I don't actually know, she wouldn't let me read it).

With her, it was a tiny thorn. Something I could ignore if I tried. And I did, and it was fine.

Then my life changed, with a girl who would later become my girlfriend. She helped me realize I was something called demisexual, meaning I'm only attracted to people I have a strong emotional connection with. And with it came being bi.

For some people, this would be a problem. Me? I wasn't afraid to tell people in the slightest. I didn't go around shouting it, but when someone brought it up, I'd come out and say it. I was proud of it, and I still am. I'll make jokes (which I probably shouldn't say in case I offend someone), I'll talk about it like it's an average, everyday thing.

Except, I really wish it wasn't.

Coming to high school with 2,200 kids and a crap-ton of rebellious renaissance teenagers who want nothing less than some divine deity telling them what to do? That makes for a lot of atheists (me), mostly because so many of them are part of the LGBT community. Four out of six of my friends are bi, and they all like to write--and they're pretty good at it also. I can't even speak more than one language, and as far as race goes, I'm definitely in the majority.

It took me a while to figure out I wanted to be an author, and how much I loved making characters come to life. That's how I always create a story--characters first, plot later. After all, people are the center of the universe. We make the world spin. And it took me even longer to realize that maybe there was something special about me after all.

It's not your likes and dislikes, what you do when you need to or say when the situation calls for it. It's how you say it. Whispered behind someone's back, a rebellious mutter that reaches no one but your friend beside you, a loud shout where the fighting words carry across the room, or even the heavy gentleness of sympathy. Words are created out of nothing but symbols and syllables--it's how you say it when the situation calls for you to say something, that makes you something.

Or keeping quiet, in which case, who's to say your voice was ever there?