A bunch of words strung together with no clear direction.
|I love to whine. No, seriously, I think it’s my favorite pastime. Otherwise I wouldn’t do it so damn much. I whine about my wife, about my car. About the ridiculous house payments my sociopath of a mortgage broker bridled me with. I whine about the weather. I whine about my bowel movements. Hell, I even whine about being a whiner. I love it that damn much. The only thing I love more than whining is me.
About me: I’m hot, ridiculously hot. I make women blush and swoon. I can shred a beautiful woman’s ego to tatters with a sideways glance. I’ve seen perfect 10’s look me up and down then trip where no one has any damn business tripping. I’ve had women offer to do unspeakable things to me.
Unspeakable things were done to me. My childhood sucked. That’s me whining again, if you couldn’t tell. I got bullied and teased and punched at recess. One little bastard had strep throat and spit on me. I fought back a few times; too few victories to really brag about. I didn’t fight back because I was worried my father would kill me dead if I got in trouble for fighting. It’s easy to pick on a kid who is more afraid of their at-home bogeyman than their daily beating at the hands of some future inmate of America.
But getting back to how awesome I am, I’m really smart too. I took all the advanced classes: math, science, English. I worked out of a college math text book when I was in the 3rd grade. At twelve I had already been to world finals twice for a smart-kids competition. I was also the team captain of my Science Bowl team in High School. I earned a B.S. in Computer Science. And I hated every damn minute of it. I hate math, I hate science and I especially hate computers. It’s funny, I love writing, even though I can’t write for shit, especially if this essay is any insight into my mediocre mind.
I try to mind things; be mindful of my surroundings. I’ve minded stores, children. Once I even minded my own damn business, but I sure as hell didn’t like it. They say a lot of things are mind-over-matter, but the longer I live the more I realize that my mind doesn’t matter. Sure, I’m smart and damn hot. But do I have the job I want? The life I want? The fast cars and the even faster women I want? No. But that’s good, because it gives me something to whine about, which is my favorite thing.
Actually, on second thought, my favorite thing is bragging. The bogeyman always told me I shouldn’t brag. Growing up I didn’t see bragging as putting anyone down or making them feel small. I was just excited to let everyone know how damn awesome I was. Seriously, when you’re as smart and hot as me, shouldn’t you let the world know it?
Knowing, it isn’t half the battle. It’s not even a quarter of the battle. It’s more like one-tenth of the battle. The other parts are blood, fear, death, righteous and unrighteous indignation, mud, metal, grease and loss, not necessarily in that order. You can’t know what being in a battle is like unless you’ve been in one. Books can’t tell you, movies can’t show you. Foreign correspondents can’t explain it to you and farbs, mainstreamers and progressives can’t recreate it for you.
Creation: being creative. Creativity is the only thing that gets me going. Drawing, painting, writing, constructing, designing, developing, presenting, performing; I’m a slut for ‘ings’. ‘Doing’ is what makes sense to me. It’s as important to me as breathing. I hate the theoretical. I can’t stand reading about quantum mechanics or linear algebra or particle accelerators. Who cares if we can smash atoms together at high speeds? It sounds like the mad scientist version of a three year old crashing his matchbox cars against each other.
The car I drive cost me $1,800. It’s a girl car which really pisses me off, but at least it’s black. Everything black is automatically cool, except for cheap plastic combs, watches that double as calculators, and accordions. Not that I’d know what cool was; remember, I was my High School’s Science Bowl team captain. I’m kind of like a dumb blond: I’m fun to look at but grating when I open my mouth. Women turn and tuck tail when I talk to them. Sure I could have put more ‘t’s in that last sentence, but why expend the energy? Besides, I’d rather add more ‘T’ to my writing than ‘t’.
That’s right, Truth with a capital ‘T’. That rhymes with ‘p’, which is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet. Sixteen is my lucky number, not that it’s ever done me any good. Age sixteen sucked. The uniform number sixteen never helped me win any baseball games. Nothing good has ever happened to me on the sixteenth of any month (I was born on the sixteenth and my birthdays summarily suck.)
You know what else sucks: lactose intolerance. Hell, all intolerance sucks. Why should anyone care what another person’s color or sexual orientation or religion is? Except for Scientologists, who are absolute morons. And people that smoke around their kids, and women who drink and do drugs while they’re pregnant, and extremists on either side of the political fence.
Fencing is a cool but impractical sport. How often do you carry a rapier around, other than maybe your wit? You should take up paintball instead. It teaches you to duck when someone’s shooting at you. You get to practice aiming a gun, something you’re more likely to carry on your person, or find in the hands of the drug dealer lying dead next to you. I don’t know why you’re hanging out with a drug dealer, but I’m not one to judge.
I once passed judgement: I actually cut him off on the freeway and he gave me the finger. Kind of like what life’s done to me. Life’s given me the finger, up to the third knuckle. But all in all life ain’t so bad, cause no matter how bad life is, no matter how much pain I feel, or sadness, or despair, or grief, I can always whine about it.