This weekend I found myself between two decisions. Stay where I’m at and be like I normally am or I take a job that could change me forever. It wasn’t something I took lightly. I need a change in my life and staying in southern Illinois is not apart of that change. I decided that I would take the job and hope for the best.
Pizza sex burger
Sweet baby Jesus hold me I’m shaking
I was always drawn to the outcasts.
Freshman year of high school, I would skip French class, at least once a week with this guy Josh. We hated the professor, and by the third week, she couldn’t stand our dumb remarks. I think that’s the only reason we were able to have an unspoken agreement where she would never confront us about our absences. When I had biology in 10th grade, I chose to sit next to the kids who failed, and sold drugs during class. I spoke with girls who dated college guys, drove shitty cars, and quoted bad philosophy.
After high school, I became part of the minimum wage and junior college lifestyle. I met people who had emerged from a young adult novel: Girls who took acting classes on Thursdays, and wore shirts that were worth as much as my whole outfit; guys, who want to kill time because they were still babies, and terrified of the real world. Even to this day, I see them stroll to class unprepared, just like in high school, but with middle school excuses about everything.
And somehow, I’ve always felt connected to their distaste for life. They knew it was rigged. School, fake friends, job security, marriage, and a vacation house was all a big fucking lie. When someone dared me to drive 80 miles an hour down Venice Blvd at two in the morning, the weird guy from work who had a mysterious sniff, would always be my co-pilot. Everyone I knew in high school wanted to get their life together, and I kept pulling away from them. They compromised for a mundane life: Money, Apple products, and an unreal notion of some everlasting safety. They were becoming people who hated their life, screamed about small dents on their car, and bought material possessions to feel some kind of comfort. They had a plan and families who were extremely proud.
But, I was a low-life. Who else would feel excited about working over-time during the holidays? I didn’t want to study abroad. On the contrary, I wanted to play UNO in Denny’s at 4 in the morning, while I ate a bacon-cheeseburger. My early twenties was a collage of unrequited love, teenage mothers, coffee after midnight, $7 dollar Pink Moscato, and parking lots covered with cigarettes. Don’t get me wrong, we all wanted to get out of that lifestyle. We all had big dreams of: starting a cafe, transferring to a four year school, or at least getting lucky enough to survive.
Still, I always wanted to talk to people who had tired eyes. The desperate faces, who walked everywhere with their headphones plugged into something, who were nose deep into books and searched for an answer, or some kind of salvation. I needed to see scars, a bad temper, and a hell of a sense of humor.