The Highs, the Lows, and Everything In Between

Sifting through the archives in a creative standstill, I came across a rough draft of the introductory chapter to Life of Riley. Read it, relate it to your life, and weep. That’s it, let it out. Everyone needs a good cry now and then…

Isn’t it funny how I cried at birth and now I laugh at death? I was once overflowing with potential. But that cup fell over and shattered on the floor. Then I stepped on the shards and cut my foot.

What ever happened to all those dreams and ambitions? They must have disintegrated somewhere between my first shot of Jagermeister and my first bong hit. Six years ago I was fresh out of college, ready to sneak attack the “real world.” That bastard must have seen me coming from a mile away. I threw a right hook. My opponent ducked and countered with a massive uppercut. I am still trying to recover, waiting for the referee to stop the fight.

It’s difficult to accept the fact that you are startlingly average. Mediocre. Ordinary. Run of the mill. After six years in sales the only thing I have realized is that I fucking hate people. In my opinion, human beings are the most loathsome, nauseating form of life on God’s green earth. Sure, we can speak and formulate coherent thoughts. Well, most of us, at least. But the people I encounter on a daily basis make me wince at the thought of reproducing. The thought of having sex with one of these creatures is no longer appealing. These women disgust me.

Believe it or not, I was once a carefree bon vivant who reveled in ‘80s glam rock-style hedonism. Until one day the hands of time slapped me across the face. I came to the jarring realization that there is more to life than getting drunk, having sex, and hanging out with my friends. Everyone I associated myself with was being abducted by maturity, one person at a time. Before I knew, it wasn’t cool anymore to get inebriated and wake up with bloody elbows and dried vomit on your chest, stark naked except for a pair of black dress socks. All of a sudden it was cool to save money to buy a house or an engagement ring. All of a sudden it was cool to lead a monotonous life, waking up at the crack of dawn, returning home in the evening, and going to sleep early. Rinse and repeat. Everyday for the next thirty or forty years.

I am a product of my environment. Another free-thinking mind that succumbed to the peer-pressure of the impatient, materialistic, super-competitive beast that is the Northeast.

My life has reached its apex and it’s all downhill from here. That’s a hard pill to swallow though I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I’ve been told that the key to success is to find something you enjoy doing and incorporate it into your career, but once a free man is enslaved by the corporate sharecroppers, he becomes a bitter malcontent who no longer finds gratification in anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. I still somewhat enjoy sleeping, drinking, and getting high, but the law of diminishing returns has set in and return on investment has steadily declined over the years. Growing up, my only aspiration in life was to be a rock star, but certain obstacles got in the way. For starters, I can’t sing for shit. Throw in the fact that I never learned how to play a musical instrument and, for some reason, keeping a band together is rather difficult. For shit’s sake, I occasionally deliver pizzas on weekends to supplement my income.

I could have never imagined a more insignificant existence in my lamest nightmares.

So, yes, I laugh in the face of death. I’m not tough or macho by any means. I’ve thought about suicide, but I don’t have the balls. Fear of commitment, I guess. But if I go to work tomorrow, the elevator cables snap and I plummet twenty-two floors to my demise, I won’t be screaming on the way down. If the tractor-trailer in the lane next to me jackknifes, rolls over and flattens my little piece of tin, at least I’ll go out listening to “November Rain.”

But today I have been issued a fate far worse than death.

I’m dwelling on my mediocrity when it hits me like a kick to the abdomen from a third-degree black belt. I try to fight it, but even the fly on the windshield can tell by my contorted facial expressions that this is a battle I cannot win. I unbuckle my seatbelt. I even undo the top button on my pants in an attempt to relieve the slightest bit of pressure. I find myself Lamaze breathing like a pregnant woman minutes away from giving birth.

It’s at this point you realize, and actually come to grips with the fact, that your only option may very well be shitting your pants.

Now all of those desecrated public toilets you could never fathom letting your sweet cheeks touch seem like a thin slice of heaven. It wouldn’t even cross my mind to line the seat with toilet paper first. Honest to God, I would give my left pinky for this feeling to just disappear.

There is nothing –nothing– worse than being stuck in a car and having your insides torn apart by the vile cretin known as Diarrhea. I’ve talked to gunshot victims, heroin addicts going through withdrawal, even prisoners of war, and none of them have denied this. I’m moaning and squirming around so much, the people in the car next to me must think I have a lady friend giving me a hummer.

It’s amazing what people take for granted. Toilets always seem to be there when you need them. They’re never too far away. Unless you’re driving down a lonely highway. Or, in my case, rush hour traffic. Suddenly, all of your worries vanish. Financial problems? Trouble at work? You caught your old lady sleeping around? Poof! They all disappear. In that short eternity, the only thing you can think about is clenching your sphincter muscles as long as you possibly can. If you lose concentration for a second, you lose a pair of undies.

(To be continued)