As I got older, the coffee got darker, the headaches got longer, and the drinks got harder. The mornings were brighter but only because my eyes were the organ-equivalent of a vampire. The rain became heavier and the glistening silver linings that rimmed the marshmallow clouds had started to rust from all the precipitation. There is no comfort in knowing that the sheen of life begins to dim with time, only more options of how to quell this particular thought process.
While the roads were becoming increasingly gnarled and ugly, the destinations served housed little consolation. The holidays became inconveniences, birthdays were nothing more than post-it notes preaching mortality, and don't even ask about vacations. The ocean water got saltier and always found its way to my eyes. Sand managed to finagle its way into the most chafing of positions in between my thighs, and by the end of the day the sun had graced my skin with an acidic, blistering kiss.
Dust had gathered on relics of the past including toys and video game systems long since abandoned. There's a browning Christmas tree in the backyard and cracked ornamental spheres in the garbage. In the attic lays a cardboard box, sloppily closed and duct-taped, which a hodgepodge of old books and assorted trinkets I had gathered over the years now called home.
Sometimes I get completely miserable and everything is bleak but its usually when my blood sugar is plummeting. It is at these horrible moments that I am a potential suicide victim (That is, if I believed in offing myself. I’ll leave that to the big man upstairs.) because at times such as that I am completely lost. I have wasted my time entirely and all my dreams are stupid and ill-conceived.
The soles of my shoes have worn thin from walking from my car to the plethora of appointments I've had lately. Once inside the dry-walled facilities I can't help but to stare at the generic paintings adorning the some-type-of-tan wallpaper. The color is reminiscent of a dog an old friend from elementary school had once until a car hit it one summer and his father buried it in the woods adjacent to their humble abode. In a few minutes a woman calls my name and pretty soon I'm talking to one of my revolving-door doctors. I say this because they are all the same. Leathery skin, musty breath, and low voices. They all blink too much behind their wire-frame bifocals and wear pants that bunch up at the crotch when they sit down displaying a perfect outline of their testicles. I swear all doctors are made in a facility somewhere in North Dakota. I don't know why there, it just seems like a fitting state. They begin with perfect models and instead of keeping them in tact they add as many generic flaws as possible. The pocked skin, over-tendency to blink, and so on and so forth. I'm yammering on about this and for that I'm sorry. The contents of this appointment have no real impact on the rest of this story; I'm just so fucking tired of these doctor archetypes. There are only two: short and bulbous in the gut region or tall and inexplicably skinny. The rest of the features described above, however, apply to all, regardless of body build. And of course the pants. Those fucking pants. Always hiked up just far enough to get a good look at their cock(s) and sock(s). And the socks. Always a mosaic of the most generic colors as if the only location available to doctors for sock-shopping is the Brown 'n' Black 'n' maybe some White Stronghold.
Once the appointment lets out (Two fucking hours later. At an optometrist. Fucking doctors) my freshly dilated pupils (which now resemble bowling balls but sans the fingerholes) are greeted by the sun. In this scenario, this is the equivalent to a lamb being slaughtered in my ears. I dig both my index fingers into my sockets as if skin rubbing ferociously into them will provide some semblance of relief. Much to my dismay but also to no surprise, this ends to no avail. Driving is going to be fun as hell in this condition.
As I maneuver my ’94 Volkswagen Jetta (which, on a side note, sounds like a blacksmith has set up shop beneath my hood) down the gnarled driveway off the office, I feel my thigh vibrate and the midi-sounding jingle of my cellular telephone. I hate this ringtone, but I hated the others more and this one kind of sounded like it was from The Legend of Zelda video game series.
I flip the phone open and I’m greeted with only black and white splotches. Damn dilation. After feeling for the button that will connect me to my audio-intruder I hold the plastic to my ear and in a voice that denotes just how annoyed I am with the day’s process thus far, I grunt:
“Hello.”
I’m not going to write out the details of the conversation because I’m pretty sure the government frowns upon such behavior. However, I will give my translation. It went along these lines (forgive the pessimism):
“Greetings, desperation-friend. It’s a Saturday afternoon and all of my other friends are either off with other people or have not yet reached an age where driving is legal. Consider me a sponge placed in your gas tank and come retrieve me. Even though I have no valid plans of how to pass the day, I request your immediate arrival and unfaltering focus on contriving some sort of a blueprint for our weekend activities.”
Sickening. But I agree and I am off.
Somewhere between miraculously navigating the twisty-straw roads that lead me to this unnamed companion’s house, my mind is consumed with thought and the hemispheres have drawn sides. They’ve also drawn swords:
Lefty: You fool. These ‘friends’ of yours as they label themselves (they are
placed in a quite different folder in your mental archives, I assure you) are all out to get you. They’ve been roping you in slowly with their friendly and non-argumentative conversing. You’ve been bedazzled by sympathy and pseudo-understanding. A cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes do not denote a bond. Nor does a heartless conversation over the pros and cons of subtitles.
Righty: Don’t listen to ‘im, old boy. You’re doing fine. These people are your
friends. They may not take a bullet for you, but they’ll go to your funeral.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Lefty: No, dammit, its not. You waste countless gallons of gasoline on them.
You bum them smokes and don’t ask for anything in return except for an
ear for your hollow words to tumble into. And who could blame you for
your theatrics? Your god damned theatrics. All the time with how the very
structural frame of your hopes, dreams, fears, and morals is slowly
dissipating before your eyes. Only someone with a passing interest in the
film-industry could have such self-aggrandizing thoughts.
Righty: Oh, hush. Since no one else is out to make him feel better, he has to do
it for himself. Now, come on dear boy, you use me more anyway. You’re
an abstract thinker and that’s why I’m the best thing you’ve got. When
ever you pull gems of ideas (like this whole essay for instance) out of
your cranium, which side do you think it comes from? Its all me, daddy-
o. All those sub-par marks on trig tests and Bio II presentations. That’s
the left bastard’s fault. Now, for God’s sake, trust me on this. These
people mean you no harm, but they aren’t exactly pulling for you to
succeed. But for these ultimately-meaningless and transitory hellish
months you call ‘high school’ they’re the best you can do. Savor it and
put on some better music than this shit. Pop-punk is so 8th grade, I
thought you matured.
I’m pretty positive this is how aneurysms occur. Most researchers attempt to etch a line between two classes of people: abstract thinkers and concrete thinkers. Unfortunately, while I consider myself mostly in the ‘abstract’ bracket, there are still some generic thoughts rushing through my mind.
I am not special, nor am I going to do anything worthy of noting. Everything I manage to scribble out or type up late at night while listening to another shitty mixtape I made for a girl I used to be pathetically in love with, is all redundant. It has all been done before.
Maybe I should quit. Maybe I should hang up my whole persona of ‘tortured, perceptive artist’ and stop this whole sensitivity bullshit. I mean, my dad hates it, but then again, I’m not exactly shooting to be that type of man. However, that doesn’t take away from the fact that it probably is all for not. I’ve always considered myself enlightened, but maybe I’m actually the one who is blind because despite the veneer of utter cynicism, there’s still this secret optimist dwelling inside me grasping on to a flimsy scrap of hope. Hope that I can overcome the imprisoning shackles of this close-minded little town I call home. But then again, maybe I was right all along. Maybe these people have sold themselves short and if they would just stop listening to everyone else, they could finally embrace happiness.
People deprive themselves of being happy because they listen to idiotic maxims like ‘We all have to do things we don’t like.’ No, we don’t. I don’t have to go to school or graduate or go to college or fornicate or feed my cat but I do because that’s what I want to do. I don’t care if you’re an alcoholic street bum who passes out every night singing Miles Davis tunes. If you are happy with what you are, truly content with drowning in liquor and rambling on about jazz music, then you have succeeded.
So maybe I need to keep fighting the good fight. Maybe I should ignore the hype and fear people try to instill in me about my future. Maybe I shouldn’t let condescension get to me so much. If I get that acceptance letter, then they can all go to hell, right? Right on. So maybe I should just keep doing what I’m doing which, at this time, is seventeen miles over the speed limit with blurred vision. Maybe I should write a novel. Or a screenplay. Or a suicide note.
Or maybe I just need to fucking eat something.
