I’m going to try something new here and post chapters from a book I was writing. If folks enjoy it, I’ll definitely post more and maybe finally finish this thing. Enjoy!
PS – I’m fully aware my chapters range from super short to long. My writing is just like my train of thought: random.
Every once in a while I think about the biggest influences in my life. There’s Ronald McHypertension who sold me on the idea that crappy burgers are a staple in every American’s diet along with barely-chicken nuggets.
What a jerk. A clown-faced jerk.
There’s also my dad who is decidedly much less of a jerk; he told me if I worked hard, I could be and achieve anything in life. Now, riddle me this: is a person still a liar if they weren’t aware they were feeding you bull shit most of your life? Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective.
Then again, so is everything.
My name is John Doe. How tragic; I suppose I’m a nobody in more ways than the name I was force fed.
Maybe I’ll name myself John Dough and become a famous rapper.
Or a baker with a fetish for occupation-based puns.
Was there a point to this? Ah, yes, the influences in my life! Sure, I already noted my father and a burger-slinging clown, but I suppose, in some way, everything in life has shaped me one way or another, whether I choose to give credit where credit is due or not. Which is why I…
“John! Are you there?”
“Hey, babe. Yeah, I’m listening.”
I’m totally not listening.
My girlfriend and I have been together for the last seven years and it has been mostly… What’s the word I’m looking for?
Don’t get me wrong; the beginning was awesome. Or at least I think it was. Sometimes I can’t distinguish between loving her and loving the things we’ve done together. Is there’s a difference?
“Yeah? Sorry, Diane. I’m just sending out some emails for work.”
I’m totally not sending out any emails for work.
“Fine. Do what you have to do, but just remember to be at my place by 5pm. My parents are coming over for dinner.”
This totally isn’t… never mind.
Another night, another dinner with people I can tolerate, but don’t necessarily want to see.
Dance, monkey, dance.
But isn’t that the way life always goes? Aren’t we all dancing someone else’s dance to some extent? Or am I the only one? There’s no way I’m the only one.
I was born to a couple of people who were, and still are, just as unremarkable as my own name. This isn’t really their fault; America breeds banality. Ready for a grim analogy? We’re a nation of fat, force-fed pigs who are used until we’re no longer needed. Except we have reality television and celebrity gossip to keep us unaware of the shitty system in which we exist.
Let’s just all slit our wrists, shall we?
Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad. It definitely isn’t. Bad is just a matter of perspective. For whom is it bad?
I just thought in a grammatically correct sentence. Yay, me!
Anyway, my parents are great people and I know they love me, but loving someone doesn’t always necessitate understanding. In fact, I think this is why love can be one-sided.
If Diane ever masters the art of mind-reading, I’m screwed.
Actually, before I continue, I should mention that I may kind of, sort of have a possible miniscule touch of ADHD. Maybe. Please don’t judge me. Not aloud, anyway.
Yes, so my parents are good people. Hard-working and god-fearing. Everything I strive not to be. But because we have this happy little thing called guilt, I have this nagging need to fit into their box of expectations. And I may have the attention span of a goldfish, but if you have an expectation, I can damn sure meet it.
And so I became mediocre.
A Week in the Life