“You’ve got your career. You’re a published writer/poet. Also, your
wealth. Your appearance. You have looks. You get girls easily. Have
sex with two girls every birthday or anytime you want. Your life is
basically sorted out. All that’s left now is probably to die.”
Hilarious. Especially the part about me having sex with two women “every” birthday. That only happens every other birthday. Get it straight. I’m glad to know that my life is complete.
I’m one year away from turning 30 and I like to think that I’ve built something worthwhile the past decade. Point A to Point Now has been a journey with numerous potholes and obstacles.
“You’ve got your career. You’re a published writer/poet.”
I was 19 years old and was on hiatus from medical studies. I spent fall and winter of that year going to the local library daily. My days were spent tucked in the quiet, least-trafficked corner of the building watching Naruto seasons 1 & 2, and occasionally writing subpar flash fiction stories. The future was a blurred mirage in the distance and my past was a heat-seeking missile playing tag with me. I figured, if I could hide behind walls of books, then adulthood would give up and leave me alone.
During this time, I didn’t have a single work published. Loser, I told myself, if grandma was still alive, she wouldn’t be happy with how you turned out.
A literary magazine I started the year before had folded and rejection slips kept piling up in my inbox to the point that I began marking them as spam. If I had given up on my literary ambitions then, I would probably be in the Congo right now volunteering at a clinic as an epidemiologist.
However, I kept pushing forward like a stubborn fool. I have a kamikaze pilot’s skull tattoo on my left bicep, not because I pledged allegiance to Imperial Japan but because I’m reckless with how I fight for what I believe in; every sprint towards a dream or ambition was a suicide mission.
Refer to my post Down and Out in New York City.
Like every human being on Earth, I have many flaws externally and internally. Regarding the latter, there have been many times when my ugliness inside manifested into ill behavior and viciousness. Believe me, I am the most flawed sentient being to ever exist in this universe. There were nights during my youth when I beat myself up so bad that I could’ve been charged with attempted murder if my violence had been directed on someone else.
I don’t hate myself now, but I saw myself as a monster that needed to be destroyed back then.
Appearances change and beauty becomes humility as you age, but the ugly qualities you have inside will remain unless you make an effort to become a better person.
“You get girls easily.”
Okay, this one’s true–BUT I can’t seem to keep my relationships with women intact. Who cares if I can “get” women easily. I’m not trying to prove anything or boost my alpha-male status. I’m a poet–I’m very sexual and full of passion and fall in love easily–it’s part of my contract.
What’s a poet’s ink without a bit of blood? What use is a male poet’s pen if he can’t wield his penis? Okay, that last part was a joke, but you get what I mean.
I’m almost 30 (!!!) and I’m not concerned with my libido. I just want someone to come home to or get run over with on the freeway while playing Pokemon Go together.
“Have sex with two girls every birthday or anytime you want.”
Refer to ‘Birthday Sex’ by Jeremih.
“Your life is basically sorted out.”
I could write a 12,400-word dissertation titled, The Individual as a Failed State: Immorality and Ineptitude as a Way of Life, that could detail why my life is a proverbial toilet, but you know what? The sunrise was beautiful this morning, the air is cool (it feels like I’m in Seattle instead of Houston), and I have nothing to complain about.
Life is good, but it is far from sorted out. This is not a rare phenomenon exclusive to me; we all have some sorting out to do. Sorting is a part of life. We will sort and clean and organize and repeat the process all throughout our existence. That’s just the way it is and I think it’s a beautiful thing.
Let me put it this way: Southern California is known for great weather year-round, but I’d rather have the ADHD weather of Texas or the four full seasons of Massachusetts, because beautiful-but-average weather every single fucking day is what Catholics call Purgatory. I want life to be like Texas weather (haha, I can’t believe I just said that).
“All that’s left now is probably to die.”
That’s the only thing waiting for us at the end of the road. There is no other door to enter except the one that we will face when the time comes.
Whether the conclusion to my surreal life happens tomorrow or 60 years from now, I will be ready. After all, that’s the only thing left to do.