View Full Version : Life

03-31-2014, 12:53 PM
I found myself grumbling as I peeled off the last bit of dimestore kleenex of my turgid and steadily shrinking member. The cacophony of midgets squealing in apostatic glee shrieked in my headphones as they placed another dog biscuit in the tranny chicken hawk submissives rectum. I plucked them from my head and set them on my specially ordered hammacher schlemmer headphone holder and zipped myself back into my cargo jorts. The tinny faraway crackles annoyed me, and I pressed pause on the video I recently tormented off a secret backdoor tor proxy client webshare client I got off the darknet.

I idly brushed the crumbs of yesterday's repast of hot pockets and fuego Takis from the space in front of my keyboard and glance at the screen. My most favorite of prurient interests frozen in frame, their glee mocking me morbidly like an Aphex Twin album cover glanced at in a half fevered dream.

I grabbed the crumpled remains of my god given duty as a man, held in tissues folded, and tossed it to my left at the overflowing wastebasket which was a monument to my shameful existence.

Mother would clean it. She always cleans it.

I closed the torrent browser player application and sighed heavily, the weight of the last forty years laying heavily on my mind. Is this what I've become? Is this what I am reduced to? I glance down at my stained Naruto t shirt. The plasticine dreamy eyes of the maquettes of my most dearly beloved and most amazingly endowed anime characters look down upon me from the perch above above my monitor.

Then I know. I know that they know. And I realize that yes, I really know.

I stand uneasily from my makeshift computer chair, fashioned out of a bucket I found, and an old throw pillow. My hairy fist swings out, and the figurines, eyes demure fake with desire, scatter like tenpins. I grab my Alienware limited edition titanium frame ergonomic left handed keyboard by an edge and swing it blindly, smashing into my screen, my ecofriendly 3d printer (used to illegally print those figurines) and pummel my entire workstation... No... My old life... Into tiny crunchy sparking bits of ether and failed potential.

I spy my fine arts degree, from the local community college, hung on the wall in a nondescript frame of brown colored plastic. It mocks me as well. It saw. I stomp across my basement room, my unlocked feet slapping the concrete as sharp as the rifle reports in that military shooter game I so exquisitely derided on my favorite social commenting website.

I swatch it angrily from the wall, and notice a reflection in the thin film of a cover. I see the regret. I see the shame. I see my disgust. I raise it high above my head and hurl it downward as frodo should have tossed the ring, as I noted in my fanfic.

The frame glances off the floor with an awkward splonk, and skitters to a rest next to the trashcan full of the offal of my sexual desires. I note I'm crying, but ignore it.

I pick the damnable frame back up and glare. I'm good at glaring. Then I see what it is. I see me. I see the failure... But i see the possibility.

I rip the Naruto shirt from my heavily hirsute frame, whipping it in a flail towards the remnants of my computer screen. This? This is it. This can be my way out. It is my time. The time is now.

I trod toward the stairs leading up from the basement. The squeaks of the wood encourage me forward. My time. Now time.
I read the top of the flight and grab the handle of the door and brace myself to speak to mother. I will need her help. But not for long... I am an eagle, ready to soar.

The know turns, almost of its own volition, and I follow it into the hallway. I'll need new clothes. I'll need to get a drivers license. I'll need to take a shower. But first, to use this energy. To use this... New lease on life.

I turn the corner into Mothers room, the scent of lavender and chamomile at odds with the sharpness of ozone from her oxygen tank. I stride across the room, afraid yet brazen to move this far into no man's land, and shut the TV off, killing a television spokesman mid pitch.

The raspy noise of her voice demands to know the meaning of this. I raise my hand to silence her. I'm not afraid now. I do not shame. I do not embarrass. I do not guilt. Her watery eyes glisten at me, possibly in fear, probably in anger and disgust. I know that look. I know disgust. I was disgust.

No longer.

I pull from every ounce of my being, rolling a perfect critical 21 on the die. Charisma check get. I begin to speak, amazed with both my boldness, and my humility.

"Mother, it's time I got a job. And it's time I supported you. I'm sorry. "
And with that, I begin the first few baby steps into my new life.... Free of anger, free of being the victim, and most assuredly, free of guilt.

03-31-2014, 01:20 PM
Is this a predicted autobiography?

03-31-2014, 02:02 PM
Is this a predicted autobiography?

Considering the fact that I go to a professional school and am pretty much guaranteed a job...probably not.

But I thought that it was an inspiring story.