My parents married in the late teens, relatively young in comparison to today's American society. They were introduced to each other by their parents, married as they were expected to, and had kids as they were expected to. My father got in uniform during the war and served his country. My mother raised the kids at home and served her husband.
Such was the cheese that bound my family.
We were a utilitarian family; held together by a sense of duty rather than a sense of intimacy. My father worked as an automotive technician to put food on the table because that was his duty. My mother fed us and bathe us and educated us because that was her duty. My brothers and sisters and I sometimes did our chores and other times knelt in the time out corner weeping and whining because that was our duty, sort of.
I went to school like I was supposed to, did homework and aced tests like I was supposed to. Took the little progress report slips home for my parents to sign like I was supposed to. I excelled in mathematics and language arts and cheated my way through geography and world history.
I graduated Cum Laude from high school like I was supposed to. I attended a local university like I was supposed to, and in five years, graduated with a Bachelors of Science like I was supposed to.
I buttoned up my collar and learned how to knot a tie like I was supposed to. Got a job in a cubicle like I was supposed to, brought home paychecks like I was supposed to.
And then, my parents sat around the house waiting for me to bring home a nice girl to marry and pop out grandkids for them.
And I was like, Fuck that!
I spent my entire life being primped and groomed, molded and educated to become a person who has all the smarts and aptitude to get where I need to go in life. I have the skills and resources to get all the things I want to have out of life, with no one but myself to blame for failure or stagnance.
And I'm supposed to marry and make babies and start this vicious cycle over again? Fuck that.
I'm a digital native, a yuppy, a product of middle class suburbia, member of a generation defined by hedonism and instant gratification.
A child of vanities.
And no bonfire.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Prologue
When I was a little kid, our house was robbed. Someone broke into the house and made off with our TV and stuff.
The lower left corner of our bedroom window had been broken, a hole more than large enough for an entire adult arm to reach into and feel around. We had horizontal blinds, stained yellow from the ages with a hint of grey from the dust that my sister and I were supposed to clean off during weekly chores, but never did.
Stage-view, my father's bed was to the left of the window; my mother's, to the right. My sister and I shared beds with my mother because my father snored like a yeti.
The window had been broken in the middle of the night, and we slept straight through it. I was too young to think about it, really, so I'm not sure how a hole in our window equated to a missing TV. My guess, ex post facto, is that the culprit stole our keys off the windowsill or something and used that to gain entry into the house.
I remember that I was so astounded by the hole in our window, I actually stuck my head and shoulders through the hole and looked around the outside of our house. My uncle wandered into the room while I was half-hanging out of a broken window and yelled at me for being a dumbass.
-
When I was a little kid, my parents would take me groceries shopping with them because nobody was home to look over me, and I was the type of kid that was dumb enough to stick his head through a hole in a broken window.
Sometimes, when we got home, my mother would give me a dollar or some loose change left over from the shopping, and told me to put it away. I'd hide the money my parents gave me, and when I'd accumulated a sizable sum, my mother would ask me if I wanted to spend that money on toys or donate it to the Church or the poor, starving families of Vietnam.
I always chose toys, and my mother would scold me and lecture me on the importance of charity. I always wondered why she gave me a choice if she ended up making me give the money away, anyway.
I hid my money in a Pringles tube. The green kind -- sour cream & onion. And by "hid," I meant I kept it in plain sight on the windowsill where everybody could see it.
We were too poor to spend our money leisurely on things like a piggy bank. My sister learned from school that you could cut a small slit into anything and turn it into a bank, so long as money fit in it. I thought that was the most ingenious thing ever, so I took a Pringles tube and turned it into my personal piggy bank.
I think my sister had an original-flavored red Pringles tube bank.
I remember that at the peak of my wealth, I'd accrued $62 and some change.
-
When I was a little kid, some motherfucker broke into my house and stole $62 from a Pringles tube I had sitting on my windowsill.
I never really thought about it, but today I did, and it really pisses me off. Because -- I mean, really -- who the fuck steals money out of a Pringles tube? It's like, some son of a bitch was robbing my house, and then he decided he wanted a snack, so he popped open a tube of Pringles, and jackpot! He found money.
I was like three years old. Some asshole tried to steal Pringles from me and ended up stealing $62.
The lower left corner of our bedroom window had been broken, a hole more than large enough for an entire adult arm to reach into and feel around. We had horizontal blinds, stained yellow from the ages with a hint of grey from the dust that my sister and I were supposed to clean off during weekly chores, but never did.
Stage-view, my father's bed was to the left of the window; my mother's, to the right. My sister and I shared beds with my mother because my father snored like a yeti.
The window had been broken in the middle of the night, and we slept straight through it. I was too young to think about it, really, so I'm not sure how a hole in our window equated to a missing TV. My guess, ex post facto, is that the culprit stole our keys off the windowsill or something and used that to gain entry into the house.
I remember that I was so astounded by the hole in our window, I actually stuck my head and shoulders through the hole and looked around the outside of our house. My uncle wandered into the room while I was half-hanging out of a broken window and yelled at me for being a dumbass.
-
When I was a little kid, my parents would take me groceries shopping with them because nobody was home to look over me, and I was the type of kid that was dumb enough to stick his head through a hole in a broken window.
Sometimes, when we got home, my mother would give me a dollar or some loose change left over from the shopping, and told me to put it away. I'd hide the money my parents gave me, and when I'd accumulated a sizable sum, my mother would ask me if I wanted to spend that money on toys or donate it to the Church or the poor, starving families of Vietnam.
I always chose toys, and my mother would scold me and lecture me on the importance of charity. I always wondered why she gave me a choice if she ended up making me give the money away, anyway.
I hid my money in a Pringles tube. The green kind -- sour cream & onion. And by "hid," I meant I kept it in plain sight on the windowsill where everybody could see it.
We were too poor to spend our money leisurely on things like a piggy bank. My sister learned from school that you could cut a small slit into anything and turn it into a bank, so long as money fit in it. I thought that was the most ingenious thing ever, so I took a Pringles tube and turned it into my personal piggy bank.
I think my sister had an original-flavored red Pringles tube bank.
I remember that at the peak of my wealth, I'd accrued $62 and some change.
-
When I was a little kid, some motherfucker broke into my house and stole $62 from a Pringles tube I had sitting on my windowsill.
I never really thought about it, but today I did, and it really pisses me off. Because -- I mean, really -- who the fuck steals money out of a Pringles tube? It's like, some son of a bitch was robbing my house, and then he decided he wanted a snack, so he popped open a tube of Pringles, and jackpot! He found money.
I was like three years old. Some asshole tried to steal Pringles from me and ended up stealing $62.
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