The Autobiography of Jane Lane, Parte the Seconde

My friend Daria said I should write more. I don't like writing because I don't feel comfortable having her apply her super-sarcasm to my shitty writing. Having Daria around is cool because she doesn't know enough about art to judge what I do. I've been carrying her all year in Ms. Defoe's class. Daria can draw a good sketch now and then, but she should stick to painting ceramic kitty-cats.

Ms. D wanted us to make moldings of the male torso, which we would bake in the kiln. I think Daria's looked like a weightlifter with breast implants. We put it in the kiln and its little pecs blew up. No joke. Ms. D gave Daria a B because she's really nice even though Daria's was the only one that blew up. I didn't say anything or Daria would be in a pissy mood all day.

I thought I already told you everything about my life, you bastards. You're going to crucify me like Paris, just because I showed my cha-cha while climbing out of the car. Yeah, I was three and I forgot to wear underwear, but I know the Press has long memories. You guys never let up, do you.

What else is there to tell you? Oh yea, I got into trouble at school today. It seems that my locker set off some alarms during one of Ms. Li's sweeps for radiation. I've been keeping some interesting industrial metal artifacts in there, and one of them was radioactive. So I got sent to the local hospital, had things X scanned and cat rayed and a $2000 whatchamajiggy later I was pronounced healthy of body and sent home. Ms. Li was at the hospital grumbling all the while, asking the doctor just to use a stethoscope. I think she stole some tongue depressors on the way out.

I came back home tumor free, I think. But the scanner didn't find the lead based paint I ate as a child. I tried to expose myself to lead paint when I was nine because I thought I would paint like Goya, but all I got was a stomachache and blue teeth. Have you ever seen Goya's self-portrait? It looks just like what I think Trent will look like, sort of what Ludwig van looked like.

There. That's part two of my biography. I swear I'm just going to make stuff up next time.

The Autobiography of Jane Lane

I got the idea from an Iron Chef by mman, where he asks a Daria character to write his or her autobiography.

(* * *)

I regret to inform you of the secret history of the Lane family. You're going to be sorry you read this, because I'm not good at writing.

We are the outcasts of the Lane family in more ways that one. My father's name is Vincent Lane, but Dad is an illegitimate child. He is the son of my grandmother Marietta Lane, who used to live in New York.

It was a big scandal. Marietta went to a home for unwed mothers until Dad was born. My friend Daria looked up the name that my grandmother put on the birth certificate. My granfather's name is "William Patrick Heller".

So we couldn't find out anything about William Patrick Heller. However, Daria signed up for that Mormon online database and we had some more information. Given Mr. Heller's birthdate and place of birth on the birth certificate, we believe that Mr. Heller is actually Mr. William Patrick Hitler. W. P. Hilter is the half-son of Alois Hitler, who is the brother of the other Hitler guy.

Which explains why Dad moves around all the time and why this branch of the Lane family is so weird. I mean, I'm Hitler's great grand-niece. I think the reason Dad isn't at home a lot is because that way, the assassins can't draw a bead on him.

As for my birth, my mother, Amanda Knight, was American royalty, the granddaughter of one of the guys who invented envelopes. He might have just made envelopes. If someone on Mom's family had been a lot smarter, you would have to call envelopes "Lanes" and I'd be living on easy street.

My origins of birth are humble. I was born on December 25th. It was during an Xmas play that Dad was photographing with Mom in West Virginia. Unfortunately, we didn't make it to the hospital in time, but Dad got some really great pictures. Mom got her tubes tied after that.

After that, I was shoved back into our ancestral home at Lawndale, with all of our family's genetic output. There was Summer, who was 15 and already planning her escape. Wind was 14 and had moved into the attic. Penny was 13 and already become the famous terror of Lawndale.

After Penny, my parents wisely decided to hold off for a few years. Or Dad had gotten lost on a trip to Tibet, I'm not sure. My older brother Trent was five when I was born and I'm sure you know who he is because he told me about having to write his biography and he got up to the time when he was four before he ran out of paper.

When I got to the time when the Man forced me to go to school, the old rotting house had emptied out. Summer had squeezed out some loinfruit and left. Wind had joined the Navy for six months. I don't know what happened, there's some story about him not being allowed back on the boat, but I can't ask him about it because he starts crying. Penny was one of the few people to cross to border into Mexico illegally, hopping on a bus the minute she graduated from Lawndale High.

So I was raised by my older brother Trent. I think it was like Tarzan raising Cheetah. Or maybe Cheetah raising Tarzan. I don't know which of the two is smarter.

Since we didn't have pencils, or pens, or anything sharp, I found all of Mom's old pottery supplies and began painting up a storm. My first work was called, "Ode to an Empty Refrigerator". I painted it when I was three, using Mom's porcelain paint. It was a white canvas, which I made full use of, turning the kitchen into a magical world of color.

When my Mom saw the mess, she said, "We have a little artist", and my work was displayed proudly in the kitchen for the next ten years. However, the refrigerator gave out four years later and the floor in the kitchen rotted through when I was ten. Two years of contractors later, and most of my original work had disappeared, leaving only fond memories.

After that, I was determined to leave my mark on the world as a suffering and tortured artist. Which is very hard when nobody knows who you are. When Van Gogh cut off his ear, at least everyone knew, hey, that's Van Gogh, what is he doing without an ear? But if no one knows who you are, all you would get is hey, what happened to your ear? Were you in an ear-mangling accident? I tried growing my hair long on one side, but Lawndale Elementary paid for money out of its petty cash fund and I was given a real haircut. Since that moment, I knew that the Man would never let me rest.

And now, I have blossomed into womanhood. What will be the destiny of Jane Lane? Will I stand with my foot on the shores of Europe, with continents ablaze behind me? Or will I just sleep a lot, like Trent? I don't know, but it will be fun finding out.