Pondering Why Franzia Make Me Crazy

Roar

So it begins...another year at my chosen institute of education. Of course my peers are preparing to graduate, and I myself am preparing to spend another year (possibly half a year if I get my shit together and do a lot of summer schooling) at this prison that holds the key to the door out of menial labor. The more I think of their departure, the more it saddens me, and I can only dread the melancholy that will set in come April. It's only the beginning of the year for God's sake. A disturbing image of me drunk, crying, vomiting, regretting, wishing, and cursing comes to my mind when I think of the class of 06's graduation day. I will attend all of their little soirees and the idea that this was supposed to have been my moment as well will plague my thoughts and I will sink into an inevitable depression where thereafter, for a week, I will lounge about my apartment eating unhealthy chemically filled foods, smoking weed, and trying valiantly to validate to myself why I am still here, a member of those left behind. I can't get past the thought that I am being "kept behind", like a retarded kindergartener who could never quite grasp the alphabet, even with the utilization of that damn catchy song and who cut themselves one too many times with the supposed "Ouchless" scissors. I just feel as though I am being punished for being thrown a curve ball, to put it nicely. But I have realized something recently, through the wise words of my father, and Garrett, and the drunken preacher at Smokehole, and that is that we cannot control what sorts of troubles the inconsistent asshole we call life deals us, we can only control our own reactions to those problems. Instead of demonstrating resilience through these pitfalls, I have fallen through the cracks and let these depressing episodes justify why I was avoiding my responsibilities and just making poor decisions in general. I like to look at every experience as a chance to learn, though, good or bad, and I am grateful for all that happened to me for teaching me that I control my own destiny. This may all sound a little cornball, and we have all heard these words before, but until something traumatic happened to me I had never understood or appreciated the meaning and power behind those words, and maybe if it sounds cheesy to you, neither have you.
I suppose in retrospect (since, unbeknownst to you I have been away from the computer) this whole five year plan doesn’t seem so bleak. Why should I be in such a hurry to exist in that “rest of your life” which nobody refers to as “the good years”? You never hear anybody say “Oh man, my mid-life where I worked a job, got strapped down with a family, and my life pretty much stagnated until that sunrise of an era which we call the “Golden Years” a.k.a. a time where I lose control of my bladder, am stricken with many illnesses, and while away the of numerous hours of retirement dreaming of a time where just normally functioning seems like a pretty fucking good day.” I suppose that’s a completely pessimistic way of viewing the rest of my life, so I won’t let it be that way. I’m sure most people do enjoy that period of their life; I guess that’s just my bitter craving for that life seeping through my fingers and forming nasty insults. I can be such a gloomy person, and that’s the facet of my personality that I least like. *Note to self: be slightly more L.A, less Seattle.
I am so excited about the coming of the fall. It’s my favorite season. I just constantly feel like my middle school self, going to a football game on a chilly Friday night. I would wander around the track surrounding the field with this hopeful feeling that (take heed, this is becoming an embarrassing confession), the guy I liked would make some kind of simple flirtatious contact. I know it sounds pathetic, and the feeling I have now is in no way induced by such frivolous fancy, but the fall brings that same kind of hopeful giddiness I unfortunately completely lose in other seasons. It’s nice to be reminded of a time where such a simple hope could bring such personal pleasure.
This situation is similar to the feeling I get every Sunday, once again a childhood memory. I have this vivid memory of staring out of the window of my bedroom and crying while I watched my sister and the Ellis girls play in the vacant lot across the street. I was grounded for some reason I can’t remember. It was Sunday damn it, my last day to do those things I personally enjoy and here I was wasting a day of my life in my room, which could be interesting when I wanted to be there, but was instantly transformed into a prison when I was forced to stay in it. Now Sundays just depress me because I never feel like I’m taking advantage of every moment I have before I have to be slapped back into monotony.
*Note to self: Annually watching Selena is one of your guilty pleasures. Oh, and you're sort of ripping off Dirty Work.
THE END