"The Story So Far..."

This is the story of a man sick of his life and the way people today live

The Story So Far…

 

Please, just stop now. I promise you that after a couple of pages you will wonder why the hell you are reading this. You will want to just put this down and forget that this piece of s**t was ever written. So, save yourself some time and quit now. Don’t you have homework to do or a stupid a*s cop drama rerun you would rather watch? You aren’t getting younger. Go do something, anything with your life. You are simply wasting precious seconds. Time you will never get back.  No one wants to hear me whine about my mundane life, least of all my day of reckoning. My own little vignette.  I know that you don’t care about my epiphany. Who has ever even heard of me anyway? You? No, I didn’t think so. I am and always have been a nobody.   Just a blip on the radar. So, I beg you to stop, you are just going to end up disappointed and frustrated by the end.

There is not significant plot structure, no dynamic characters. This is not a happy story. My life is not a feel good adventure about a man who falls in love with the girl who has been there the whole time, but never seen as the “typical” girlfriend type. It’s not a chick flick.  My version of love never gets past f*****g. If you love someone then you just f**k them and let them go, right? So that way they don’t have to pretend to care about you after the sex gets boring. There is no hero of this story, just a series of events that leads to me ending up here writing this garbage.  I can’t tell you where, but I promise you will find out why soon enough.  It’s just a matter of time before I get caught anyway.  Escape is unattainable.  For the time being let’s just say I’m somewhere between Carolina and California.

The only people who are still reading this are part of my generation. The generation born in a world of apathy who have lost respect for themselves and therefore lost respect for the world around us. All the little emo f*****s, with their thick eyeliner and razorblade tattoos, polluting the world with their self-loathing. It makes me sick. They are the reason the world is getting denser by the day. They would rather write depressing poems and listen to their screamo, suicidal music than learn anything of substance. These kids, my generation, the future of civilization, have given up on life before many of theirs have actually started. It’s pathetic that the world is relying on guys-in-girl-pants to carry on the species. Let’s just hope that these little nut-huggers they are wearing haven’t killed off all the remaining seed. Then we would all be fucked.  Don’t get me wrong, I hate mankind as much as the next man, however I would like to see the race continue, if only to validate my own life.

I am part of the “Lost Generation.”  I know that experts say that Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner are part of the “Lost Generation”, but all that’s bullshit. There are only two great writers that should even be considered representatives of the “Lost Generation”: Edgar Allan Poe and Jordan Pundik. I don’t feel worthy enough to be considered in the same breath as these 2 greats, so I can just imagine how all these other little f***s feel, but I got to compare us to somebody.  Poe has been representing for almost 200 years with some of the darkest stuff ever written. Though dead, his apathetic views echo the opinion of today’s youth.  And as for Jordan Pundik… well let’s just say that he has written the background music to my life. You can pick any one of his songs (I really mean any one) and I can tell you what period in my life the song represents. Cue music.  I’m still  waiting for a good day.  I think I’ve held this long enough.  I think it’s safe to tell you some things.

                       ****

Beep!  Beep!  Beep!

F**k, what time is it?  7:30.  Ugh… I just went to sleep three hours ago.

“Good morning, Honey.  I’m going to hop in the shower; go back to bed,” she said as she rolled over and kissed my bare chest.  “I love you.”

Yes, the B***h really loves me.  That is why at approximately 2:12 this morning she began, as she does at some point most nights, moaning her ex-boyfriends name in her sleep.  She doesn’t know that she does this, but I do.  I wouldn’t know what sleep felt like if I tried my best.  Insomnia at it’s finest.  I can’t even speak his name, so let’s call him Dick.  See, Dick and B***h broke up 6 months ago, but she never fully got over him.  She just can’t flee from the memory of the man she once had.  When me and her met, we were 2 jaded souls who hated the world, each with their own reason.  Our relationship is trivial at best.  All we really do is keep each other alive.  Literally.

Those three words are said too much anyway.  The word “love” lost all meaning as soon as 13 year old girls began using “love” to describe the new Ugg boots they got for Christmas or the douchebag senior who popped their cherry and then quit talking to them.  Sorry, but one word cannot accurately describe the affection one person has for his/her teen idol, as well as the Jamba Juice they had for lunch.  Much like pride or religion, love is an ancient concept that has lost its meaning over time.  Mankind has lost the ability to express how they truly feel, so they rely on one word to express every feeling on the range of human emotion.  And it isn’t the ineptitude of the English language because it is happening everywhere.

Then again, “love” might actually fit this circumstance.  She “loves” me enough to wear me around when it’s convenient , but doesn’t care enough to actually tell me how she feels.

What would Mother not say?

 “Ok, have fun.  I love you too.”  I’m such a f*****g hypocrite.

A half hour later B***h wandered out of the bathroom wearing only a white towel with her makeup already done.  The steam forcing her blond, shoulder-length curls to stick to the side of her face as it does when she is under me faking an orgasm.  I know a fake orgasm when I see one; I have heard them nearly all my life.  She walked the three paces necessary to get to the dresser and began rummaging through the second drawer.  Her collagen-filled a*s, sticking out from under the not-quite-big-enough cloth, jiggled in my face.  We never planned on this disaster.  A king sized bed in a 10’ X 12’ room is never a good idea, unless you like things constantly in your face that people should never have to see.  B***h squeezes on a pair of panties that no longer fit 2 months ago and a bra so tight that it’s surely going to cause breast cancer.  Women these days would rather wear clothes 2 sizes too small than hurt their own self-esteem by admitting that they don’t weigh what they once did.

I mean, it’s simple human genetics.  We are always growing, just not necessarily vertically.  Little girls mature and grow up to become s***s.  These s***s, unhappy from the random hookups or the accidental pregnancies, eat their feelings Most women are against abortion until they are faced with it themselves.  Killing a fetus doesn’t seem nearly as bad when it’s yours.  For example, a newly widowed woman tries to kill the leach inside of her because she was not the one who wanted the thing.  Except in this case the woman is too far along and has to become a mother.  Consequences are inevitable.

All of this happens because they think that repression is the best answer to life problems.  Eating causes weight gain.  Weight gain turns s***s fat and fat s***s will give head only so many times before they realize that men don’t want to stimulate their PC muscles.  You can’t avoid genetics.  This song’s for stupid girls who think that every boy is all about them.  The lack of weekly pounding turns fat s***s into b*****s (believe me I experienced it at an early age).

“Do you still find me attractive?” she asked, standing half naked in front of me.  Yes, I’m attracted to you.  The you you used to be.  But don’t act like everyone hasn’t noticed the 20 pounds you gained recently.    20 pounds on a tall girl is a lot so for a girl 5’3” 20 pounds is a huge deal.  Sorry, baby, but that skin-tightening lotion isn’t doing s**t.  I would say hit the gym because no guy wants to grab love handles that are bigger than the girl’s tits.  And she wonders why I’m “too tired” to sleep with her but not tired enough for oral…

What would Mother not say?

 “Of course,” I said.  From the dresser she moved around the end of the bed to the walk-in closet and shut the door.

“Don’t you have to work at 10 today?” she asked through the basically cardboard door.  People these days use the cheapest s**t round to build things because they know that Americans are dumb enough to buy them.  The American stereotype amazes me and what’s even worse is that the stereotype is pretty much dead on.

“Yeah,” I yelled back.  “But, I’m opening by myself today so I can be late.” When I say “by myself” I actually mean that I spend the first hour by myself before the first pee-on shows up.

“Okay, well make sure that you take your pill before you go.  I know that you always get cranky when you forget,” B***h replied as she stepped out of the closet donning a grey striped pant-suit and her hair up in a librarian-bun.

“Oh, I won’t don’t worry.  Have fun at work I will see you when I get off,” I said.  B***h sat on the bed and then kissed me goodbye.  I heard walk down the hallway and grab the keys off the counter before the front door shut. Driving really isn’t my thing.  I’m sure most people have their license by now, but to me driving is only another burden that I don’t want to bear.   There are many things that could go wrong that I don’t want to f**k with.  For example, a father who has a pregnant wife at home can die in a car accident.  As soon as I hear the door shut I sit up in bed and look at the bottle on the dresser.

Sertraline.  Just another way for America to make a quick buck off the little man.  It’s pathetic that the number 1 prescribed medication last year was antidepressants followed closely by Viagra.  There always has to be something wrong with you.  I guess in America if you aren’t threatening to kill yourself then you are upset because your boner died.  The government is simply trying to get people hooked on some substance, like alcohol or pills, so that they can leach off of them the rest of their lives.  For example, a widowed mother gets hooked on pain pills to hide her sorrow.  I can’t imagine what they’ll tell me, what to wear, what to drink, where to eat…

What would Mother not do?

F**k pills.  They ruin my liver anyway.  The phone vibrates on the dresser, shaking the pills in the prescription bottle.  Who the hell is calling me this early in the morning?

“Hello?”

“HEY!” he said.  His lisp was evident even in this little response.  “I was hoping to catch you before you headed off to work.”  It’s my boss, Mr. Flamboyant.  If the lisp wasn’t a good enough indicator, his unusually high voice gave him away  He flaunts the fact that he is gay in all of his feminine actions and the way he flirts with the employees, but refuses to admit it to anyone.  Like a 40 year old man with a “roomie” is not obvious enough.  Then again, Mr. Flamboyant isn’t the “stereotypical” gay man.  His pessimistic attitude towards life doesn’t exactly fit the perky, fun-loving gay men the television likes to portray.  I guess 20 years at a dead end job will do that to you.  Though, today he seems rather excited about something.  I can see him scratching his beard right now, as he always does when he gets really nervous.

“I was just getting ready to leave.  What’s up?” I asked.

“Ok, so I wanted to do this in person, but I just couldn’t wait.  And since I’m not going to see you today I thought I would give you a ring before you left.  I was talking to District last night and we have decided on who we want to fill the vacant Assistant G.M. position…”  Let me guess, you want my dumass.  “So… do you want it or not?”

Assistant G.M., huh?  What will I make, like 12 bucks an hour?  I guess that a C average in acting school gets you here: an assistant manager at a movie theater.  Mother must not have taught me well enough.  But that’s life.  Everyone settles.  You can’t bypass fate.  Everyone takes a job for a couple of months just to pay off some bills and then never leaves.  You grow comfortable.  You aren’t happy, but not unhappy enough to do something about it.  For example, a mother who is addicted to pills becomes a hooker to pay the rent.  Most people settle to the point that they completely forget what their dreams were in the first place.  Or they go into the world with no dreams so they won’t be disappointed.  This raise is just another step into obscurity.  I should have turned down the staff leader promotion in the first place so that way I would not even be in this position.  “I would love that, sir.  Thank you so much!”  I’m sick of smiling and so is my jaw…

“I thought you would be excited.  Well, I will let you get to work, thought you would like to know the good news first.  We’ll iron out the details on Thursday.  See you then.”

I shut my phone.  It’s all a façade, a little play I’m putting on.  Except the play is my life and I’m playing the antagonist.  Don’t act like I’m the only one that does this.  I have never actually “met” anyone in my life.  It’s the mask that you meet.  No one will actually like the person you actually are so you put on a show, acting the way that you think the audience wants you to.  And I’m sure that you’ve been happy, happy with your role.  It doesn’t’ matter anyway because no one is listening.  They are only waiting for you to shut up so they can so what they have been rehearsing in their head.  Then again, everyone needs friends, right?  Even if they are simply representation of who they want to be.

9:15.  I walk to the closet and open the door.  My section of the closet consists of about 4 colorful shirts complete with matching ties and 2 pairs of black pants: my work attire.  She still b*****s I take up too much space in here.  Apparently 6 feet of closet space is not enough for women; the rest of my clothes take up the bottom 2 drawers of the dresser.  I grab the closest shirt to me and throw it on.  Looks like the light blue shirt and the checkered tie today.  That’ll do. I’m always dressed to kill and I feel like I owe it to the world…

My watch and my wallet were waiting for me on the kitchen counter.  These are the 2 necessities in life.  A wallet carries your credit cards and ID’s which will grant you anything in the world.  Credit cards are the new cash.  It’s a matter of time until paper money becomes more worthless than the paper it is printed on.  And watches truly run the world.  The world runs on a schedule, from bus routes to business meetings.  Watches keep the time so the world can keep spinning.  The loss of time can really f**k you up, and not just in the metaphorical way.

I grabbed my watch and wallet and quickly slipped on my stringless suede Walmart shoes.  Suede does wonders when it comes to hiding butter stains and Walmart offers a top-of-the-line selection for only 15 bucks.  Seriously.  The door slammed behind me and I didn’t bother to check if the lock worked.  None of the s**t is mine anyway.

Market Place 16 is located 3 blocks from my house.  It’s a great shithole, as far as shitholes are concerned.  Let me explain: the black spiral carpet leading back to the theaters clashes wonderfully with the grey tile covering the lobby.  The box office, in the middle of the lobby, is a lovely shade of purple while the concession stand in the back is a strange mix of teal and red.  Most of the neon signs have burnt out and the different paint color behind them revealesthe shotty paint job.  It looks like someone got half way through a renovation and then got lazy.  That’s union workers for you.

 Movie screens have rips and tears as well as duct tape holding them together.  Seats are broken and the ceiling tiles are stained from the snow melting on the roof.  The thermostats broke years ago so there’s no telling what the temperature will be in each theater.  Mildew is all over the curtains on the theater walls from employees taking out their anger with half empty drink cups.  Mice s**t litters the snack cabinets and stock rooms.  If you are lucky enough you might get to feel one of the little furry f***s scuttle past your leg while you watch Scary Movie (or was it Epic Movie?  It doesn’t matter they are all the same).  You put a theater next to a field and you are bound to have mice.  There aren’t too many warm places where food consistently lays on the floor in this world.  This is my workplace.

You want to know the worst part?  You dumasses pay 10 bucks a piece to watch movies here.  Sure, there’s another theater in town, but it doesn’t have digital picture.  Where does the money go?  F**k if I know.  You can’t avoid movies even if the theater is rundown and disgusting.  So, you pack the seats and try not to find out what just squeaked behind you.  Ignorance truly is bliss.  Knowledge detoxes the body from the high ignorance induces.  I unlocked the back door and headed straight to the pooper.  The first thing you learn when opening is to start the popper first.  Popcorn always takes the longest to get ready.

What would Mother do?

Yeah, I’m on the verge of something good, it’s been up my sleeve, waiting.  I turned the popper on and put a cup of seeds in the kettle and pushed the oil button twice.  The warning says “Seeds first, the Oil”, then it warns to not overfill the popper with oil.  F**k that.  From the popper I moved around the counter and back to the janitor’s closet.  I grab a gallon of Rough N’ Ready and Lemon 7.  If there’s one thing that cheap materials do well, it’s not clean.  They burn.  It’s amazing what people these days will accept as being adequate.  I did this 5 more times until I was sure I had plenty of catalysts to keep the flame going.

The popper started spewing fresh kernels.  That means I got about 20 minutes until the burnt popcorn starts a blaze.  Plenty of time for me to get out of here.  I opened each container separately and splashed them all over the counters and the walls.  At least the owners were cheap so it all would burn quicker.  The last thing I did before leaving was shut off the fire alarm next to the exit door.  We didn’t want any fire trucks coming to stop this beautiful site.

So, I can’t tell you where I am.  Do I regret it?  A little bit, but it was just a matter of time before Mother’s way of thinking caught up to me.  You can’t escape the way you were raised.  Nature or Nurture.  Just like the way I can’t evade the cops forever.  Even if I don’t get caught, the fire seared the image into my memory.  B***h won’t even go away.

There is only one way to truly break free from anything in this life.  For example, a mother who ODs on pills and a father who dies in a car crash.  But when you really think about it, you still can’t escape.  That is, of course, if that whole “Jesus” bullshit is true.  You will always have that one final judgment that you can’t dodge.  It’s all inevitable.  Just quit now, you are wasting your time.  Get out while you can.  Please, just stop.  And it’s all downhill from here.  Your good intentions slowly turn to bitterness, reoccurring episodes with each and every kiss.

 

Author's Note

This is my latest work. I'm still working on it, so this may not be the final work. Let me know what you think

Reviews

[Drew Wade]

I have to tell you, I liked this. It does get a bit ranty, but you say a lot of good things in your rants. I think once you clean it up some it's going to be amazing. It's already mostly there.

[L'auteur]

Oh, this is very very good...its hard to get me intrigued but you have done it, good form