Jack...
"My name is Jack. I know you hear that name everyone, and you must be thinking, 'Hmm, Jack...i'll bet his name is an allusion or a reference to something else.' But there's nothing more to it; i'm just Jack. 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.' Shakespeare was just a smart guy, wasn't he? He didn't carry his head between his shoulders--he kept it floating atop the clouds, and swimming through the deepest oceans, grabbing fistfuls of some of the most beautiful poetry man will ever find.
Shakespeare was great, but enough about him. I want to talk about me, for a while. I don't write like Shakespeare, so you'll have to put up with whatever comes to mind, instead. I hope that's ok with you.
You don't know me. You have no idea who I am, or what i'm here for, or why you should care. But because you're down to the third paragraph, already, it must not matter much to you. So, i'll take a minute to tell you a bit about me.
I take baths. Not the first thing you wanted to know, maybe, but it's important. They give me time to think, without worrying about distractions. When was the last time you took a bath? I wouldn't tell my friends that; i'm a guy, and guys are supposed to take showers. More masculine, I guess, but I don't get it; baths are better than sleep. Think about what can happen when you're sleeping: You're lying there, dreaming about whatever it is that flows through your brain all day, and someone comes banging on the door and drags you up to A: Take out the garbage. B: Wash the dishes. C: Walk the dog. D: Clean your room.
Ever have someone try and pull you out of the bathroom? Never happens. You hear a knock on the door, give 'em a quick, 'I'm in here!' and they back off. Doesn't matter who or what they wanted, they leave you alone.
And then you ask, 'Jack, just why do I care that you take baths?'
For the same reason that you care to know my name at all.
I was thinking about my first memory, the other day. Can you remember yours? Mine was cake. It was probably my 2nd or 3rd birthday, and I was seated in this highchair, confidently plowing into a hefty slice of chocolate cake. Barefisted. It made me a little sad to recall, because I can't remember the last time I enjoyed cake that much. I felt so fulfilled--just shoving cake down my throat, like it would become my greatest achievement in life. Maybe I figured i'd look back on it one day and think, 'Hey Jack, remember that time you downed that cake? Man, that was the time, wasn't it? Aren't you proud of that? Yeah, that was great...'
Do you remember your first goal? I mean, your first, real, planned goal--the first thing you wanted badly enough to take time out of your life to do? I think mine was a lot like every other 5 year old boy's; to be a ninja. I watched the Ninja Turtles with a career in mind; did you ever watch a show like that? Anyway, I wanted to be a ninja, in a bad way. I thought the coolest feeling ever would be to crash into your house through a window, catch a whole room full of foot-soldiers attacking your parents, and kick the bully-snot out of them. I just imagined how proud my parents would be to see their kid beating the holy bjesus out of these sinister, evil purple guys. I'm much older now, and I don't think my parents would know what to do if I came screaming through the window in a fit of ninja-rage and kick-sored the fannies of a dozen foot-soldiers, but man, what a happy myth it was in my mind.
I wonder if this matters to you, at all. You've read this far, maybe for just the morbid curiousity that plagues you to discover 'the point' of this. I don't think there is a point...I just feel like talking.
Who is your best friend in the whole world? Do you know his/her first memory? How about their first goal, or fantasy? Do those things matter to you? Should they? I guess I should apologize, because I ask a lot of questions. It's easier on me, though; it helps me to feel like i'm not talking to myself.
I'm not sure if there's anything left for me to say, tonight. Let me know if you'd like to get to know me, a little better, and maybe we'll talk more tomorrow."
Jack
Shakespeare was great, but enough about him. I want to talk about me, for a while. I don't write like Shakespeare, so you'll have to put up with whatever comes to mind, instead. I hope that's ok with you.
You don't know me. You have no idea who I am, or what i'm here for, or why you should care. But because you're down to the third paragraph, already, it must not matter much to you. So, i'll take a minute to tell you a bit about me.
I take baths. Not the first thing you wanted to know, maybe, but it's important. They give me time to think, without worrying about distractions. When was the last time you took a bath? I wouldn't tell my friends that; i'm a guy, and guys are supposed to take showers. More masculine, I guess, but I don't get it; baths are better than sleep. Think about what can happen when you're sleeping: You're lying there, dreaming about whatever it is that flows through your brain all day, and someone comes banging on the door and drags you up to A: Take out the garbage. B: Wash the dishes. C: Walk the dog. D: Clean your room.
Ever have someone try and pull you out of the bathroom? Never happens. You hear a knock on the door, give 'em a quick, 'I'm in here!' and they back off. Doesn't matter who or what they wanted, they leave you alone.
And then you ask, 'Jack, just why do I care that you take baths?'
For the same reason that you care to know my name at all.
I was thinking about my first memory, the other day. Can you remember yours? Mine was cake. It was probably my 2nd or 3rd birthday, and I was seated in this highchair, confidently plowing into a hefty slice of chocolate cake. Barefisted. It made me a little sad to recall, because I can't remember the last time I enjoyed cake that much. I felt so fulfilled--just shoving cake down my throat, like it would become my greatest achievement in life. Maybe I figured i'd look back on it one day and think, 'Hey Jack, remember that time you downed that cake? Man, that was the time, wasn't it? Aren't you proud of that? Yeah, that was great...'
Do you remember your first goal? I mean, your first, real, planned goal--the first thing you wanted badly enough to take time out of your life to do? I think mine was a lot like every other 5 year old boy's; to be a ninja. I watched the Ninja Turtles with a career in mind; did you ever watch a show like that? Anyway, I wanted to be a ninja, in a bad way. I thought the coolest feeling ever would be to crash into your house through a window, catch a whole room full of foot-soldiers attacking your parents, and kick the bully-snot out of them. I just imagined how proud my parents would be to see their kid beating the holy bjesus out of these sinister, evil purple guys. I'm much older now, and I don't think my parents would know what to do if I came screaming through the window in a fit of ninja-rage and kick-sored the fannies of a dozen foot-soldiers, but man, what a happy myth it was in my mind.
I wonder if this matters to you, at all. You've read this far, maybe for just the morbid curiousity that plagues you to discover 'the point' of this. I don't think there is a point...I just feel like talking.
Who is your best friend in the whole world? Do you know his/her first memory? How about their first goal, or fantasy? Do those things matter to you? Should they? I guess I should apologize, because I ask a lot of questions. It's easier on me, though; it helps me to feel like i'm not talking to myself.
I'm not sure if there's anything left for me to say, tonight. Let me know if you'd like to get to know me, a little better, and maybe we'll talk more tomorrow."
Jack