There's no rewind... Why?
August 07, 1983
My mother was wheeled into an emergency room cursing at the top of her lungs and in the process of delivering a baby. In truth, I wasn't even delivered in the Labor Ward. Nope, I wanted out so badly I was delivered in the hallway, but just so they could charge my parents for the Labor Ward, as I understand it, my mom, on her gurney, was pushed in at the last possible second, giving them the right to tack another few thousand on the bill.
I'm not quite sure of the time, though funnily enough I believe it was 7:00pm, I came into this world wearing my 1/4th Native American blood on my sleeve. I was pale as a ghost with fiery, cherry red hair. Imagine my dad's surprise.
Oh, granted, I darkened out and my hair finally turned black after a few years, but not before my dad could ask the question a multitude of times: Why do I have a red baby? - Then of course, there were the calls to relatives, asking the same question until my late Grand Father finally told the man that my mom is half Native American. Cherokee in fact- well, I also understand there's some Black Foot in the family somewhere.
Damn that was a long time ago. It's funny because, what I'm about to say will be felt by all, hated by some and strike a chord with the small minority that are in my shoes. What am I talking about? Time mostly; time, age, and the very act of growing older.
Today is my Birthday and yet, instead of jumping for joy or cheering on the fact that I'm but one year away from being able to do any and everything I want, I'm in a state of shock and disbelief. I really didn't think it would happen. On two sides of the coin, actually, because for one, I didn't think I'd live to see 20, for two... I don't think I really wanted to.
Not to say I wanted death, no, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I honestly believed I'd tapped into the Fountain of Youth and would remain a legally unaccountable, pragmatic, villainous boy with the balls to shoot a grown man in the testicles, forever. When I tell you I was a little spitfire, believe me. I don't think there's anything I wouldn't do short of killing someone, and that I can't even say honestly because... damnit, to tell you the truth, I've tried.
I can think of about five people (online anyway) who I've related the events of my short life to and for a very good reason. Most people think I'm bullshitting. How could so much pain, rejection, dejection, death, loss, strife, triumph, victory and glory happen in just twenty years and produce a person as mentally balanced as I am? I'll agree with the sceptics, it seems impossible, but unfortunately in my case, the rare chance, that one-in-one-thousand hit home.
I guess that makes me the one.
What a lonely feeling...
I grew up rich, ended up poor, rich again, then poor again. My family made a lot of poor decisions in getting to this point, I agree, most of which were made by my drunken father and nearly-clinically-insane-mother who is currently suffering Empty Nest syndrome. I was the baby in the family. I was able to see the age of Love and Hate evolve and crumble. I've seen death more than you have; that's a promise. I've felt pain more than you have, on both the physical and mental front; that's another promise. I've done things you've probably never done and likely won't do; that's a promise, and for the love of God don't do it. Most of that crap was so dangerous, hell I wouldn't do it again.
And so here I stand. Or sit. Whichever. Most people wouldn't take it as hard as I'm taking it now, and to those people I either congratulate your resolve or curse your stupidity. Call me what you will, but I miss my childhood. As horrifying as it was at times, I wouldn't trade it. Actually I wouldn't mind reliving it. Endlessly.
Some would say I'm immature.
I agree.
To them I say: Fuck you, I like my immaturity.
Adulthood is going to strangle me and I know it. You see, unlike most people who scream at the top of their lungs when they turn 20 or 21, talking of freedoms they will soon have; I know the truth behind the masked little lie. Freedom is childhood people. Adulthood is prison. You get to it and suddenly all those other things you never had to think about become priorities and obligations, things you can't avoid or ignore, things you'll never be able to get away from until the day you rot in a casket. Bills, keeping a roof, a job, and if you opted for a family, keeping them safe, fed, clothed and comfortable. Beyond that, you become a cog.
That's right, a cog. A piece in a vast machine that ticks and cranks and turns for someone else, making some other fellow rich off of your blood, sweat and tears until that very machine winds and whittles you down to an inaccurate, misfiring, ground away shell of your former self. Then you're considered obsolete, unusable. You're replaced with a younger cog and tossed into the pile of retired gears a.k.a a Rest Home where you sit and idle away the days until you die of disease, body failure or time and loneliness.
I only have three fears in life:
1) The dark
2) Responsibility
3) Turning 30
Sadly, I've encountered two of the three. Foolish philosophers believe that when you've encountered, met and concurred all of your fears, you no longer have a purpose in this life and it becomes your duty to evolve. Where does that leave me?
Am I depressed? No. Disappointed? Absolutely. I've become a wandering creature without purpose or place. Without rhyme or reason, I've become the very thing I despise. A disenchanted waif. I read a book once where the phrase: 'Life starts to suck at 19' was used. I absolutely agree.
But at the same time... I look forward to the challenge.
Perhaps I'm morbid.
Or curious.
I wonder which...
Hybrid: Out.
My mother was wheeled into an emergency room cursing at the top of her lungs and in the process of delivering a baby. In truth, I wasn't even delivered in the Labor Ward. Nope, I wanted out so badly I was delivered in the hallway, but just so they could charge my parents for the Labor Ward, as I understand it, my mom, on her gurney, was pushed in at the last possible second, giving them the right to tack another few thousand on the bill.
I'm not quite sure of the time, though funnily enough I believe it was 7:00pm, I came into this world wearing my 1/4th Native American blood on my sleeve. I was pale as a ghost with fiery, cherry red hair. Imagine my dad's surprise.
Oh, granted, I darkened out and my hair finally turned black after a few years, but not before my dad could ask the question a multitude of times: Why do I have a red baby? - Then of course, there were the calls to relatives, asking the same question until my late Grand Father finally told the man that my mom is half Native American. Cherokee in fact- well, I also understand there's some Black Foot in the family somewhere.
Damn that was a long time ago. It's funny because, what I'm about to say will be felt by all, hated by some and strike a chord with the small minority that are in my shoes. What am I talking about? Time mostly; time, age, and the very act of growing older.
Today is my Birthday and yet, instead of jumping for joy or cheering on the fact that I'm but one year away from being able to do any and everything I want, I'm in a state of shock and disbelief. I really didn't think it would happen. On two sides of the coin, actually, because for one, I didn't think I'd live to see 20, for two... I don't think I really wanted to.
Not to say I wanted death, no, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I honestly believed I'd tapped into the Fountain of Youth and would remain a legally unaccountable, pragmatic, villainous boy with the balls to shoot a grown man in the testicles, forever. When I tell you I was a little spitfire, believe me. I don't think there's anything I wouldn't do short of killing someone, and that I can't even say honestly because... damnit, to tell you the truth, I've tried.
I can think of about five people (online anyway) who I've related the events of my short life to and for a very good reason. Most people think I'm bullshitting. How could so much pain, rejection, dejection, death, loss, strife, triumph, victory and glory happen in just twenty years and produce a person as mentally balanced as I am? I'll agree with the sceptics, it seems impossible, but unfortunately in my case, the rare chance, that one-in-one-thousand hit home.
I guess that makes me the one.
What a lonely feeling...
I grew up rich, ended up poor, rich again, then poor again. My family made a lot of poor decisions in getting to this point, I agree, most of which were made by my drunken father and nearly-clinically-insane-mother who is currently suffering Empty Nest syndrome. I was the baby in the family. I was able to see the age of Love and Hate evolve and crumble. I've seen death more than you have; that's a promise. I've felt pain more than you have, on both the physical and mental front; that's another promise. I've done things you've probably never done and likely won't do; that's a promise, and for the love of God don't do it. Most of that crap was so dangerous, hell I wouldn't do it again.
And so here I stand. Or sit. Whichever. Most people wouldn't take it as hard as I'm taking it now, and to those people I either congratulate your resolve or curse your stupidity. Call me what you will, but I miss my childhood. As horrifying as it was at times, I wouldn't trade it. Actually I wouldn't mind reliving it. Endlessly.
Some would say I'm immature.
I agree.
To them I say: Fuck you, I like my immaturity.
Adulthood is going to strangle me and I know it. You see, unlike most people who scream at the top of their lungs when they turn 20 or 21, talking of freedoms they will soon have; I know the truth behind the masked little lie. Freedom is childhood people. Adulthood is prison. You get to it and suddenly all those other things you never had to think about become priorities and obligations, things you can't avoid or ignore, things you'll never be able to get away from until the day you rot in a casket. Bills, keeping a roof, a job, and if you opted for a family, keeping them safe, fed, clothed and comfortable. Beyond that, you become a cog.
That's right, a cog. A piece in a vast machine that ticks and cranks and turns for someone else, making some other fellow rich off of your blood, sweat and tears until that very machine winds and whittles you down to an inaccurate, misfiring, ground away shell of your former self. Then you're considered obsolete, unusable. You're replaced with a younger cog and tossed into the pile of retired gears a.k.a a Rest Home where you sit and idle away the days until you die of disease, body failure or time and loneliness.
I only have three fears in life:
1) The dark
2) Responsibility
3) Turning 30
Sadly, I've encountered two of the three. Foolish philosophers believe that when you've encountered, met and concurred all of your fears, you no longer have a purpose in this life and it becomes your duty to evolve. Where does that leave me?
Am I depressed? No. Disappointed? Absolutely. I've become a wandering creature without purpose or place. Without rhyme or reason, I've become the very thing I despise. A disenchanted waif. I read a book once where the phrase: 'Life starts to suck at 19' was used. I absolutely agree.
But at the same time... I look forward to the challenge.
Perhaps I'm morbid.
Or curious.
I wonder which...
Hybrid: Out.