On Thursday, October the 25th, I was ripped from my blissful sleep by the surging wails of my alarm clock. Of course, this description provides no distinction from any other day. The excruciating cycle of early sleeping/early rising continues.

As I pulled on a pair of fluorescent red skinny jeans from the pile of unwashed clothing carpeting my floor, I couldn’t help but let my eyes drift closed. It was surprisingly dark in my tiny room. Far too early to be awake for anyone with an ounce of sanity.

After carefully selecting an argyle sweater to match my pants I made my way downstairs for breakfast. It was a disgustingly unremarkable day. The same bowl of cereal, the same glass of juice, and the same multivitamin simply enhanced the monotony of the never-ending cycle of mundane routines that make up my life.

There was no sign of my parents. My dad would be at work by now, and I was positive that that the distinct lack of sunlight was keeping my mom from getting up. The only company I had was my cat, snoozing on the la-z-boy in the living room.



A couple hours into the school day my eyes began feeling strangely dry and heavy. I wanted to take a nap on the small mound of books and various other scholarly materials lying atop my desk, but the type of person I generally associate sleeping in classes with is a total douche bag.

Waking me from my day dreaming was the harsh voice of one of the many teachers at this school whom I despise. Again, this information is nearly meaningless since I despise the majority of people in this school.

“So, Brian, anything you would like to contribute?” Mrs. Jefferson asked.

The class had been discussing something to which I paid literally no attention. I unstuck the palm of my hand from my cheek before speaking.

“Not at all, but thanks for asking,” I said with a slight grin.

A couple people, with whom I make a point to seldom interact, giggled. I wasn’t trying to be funny or anything. I just hated this teacher to the point where sarcasm flowed off of my tongue like water off a duck’s back.

The corners of Mrs. Jefferson’s mouth twitched. “You have nothing to say about the views on morality expressed in this novel?” She held up her copy of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I’m glad she did, because the number of despicable books required for this class was getting outrageous. I had trouble keeping track of them all.

Thinking back to the Sparknotes page I read the night before, which was not about this book, I answered, sighing audibly before beginning, “Well, I feel that the old-fashioned morality expressed in this novel through the Christian faith is playing a role, the size of which is growing. Furthermore, the growth of said role correlates directly with how much I dislike the book.”

Several more people giggled. A few even laughed loudly. I couldn’t help but smile a bit. As much as I dislike the people in this class, even a king enjoys making peasants laugh.

Fortunately, Mrs. Jefferson simply smiled and nodded before carrying on with her lesson. I guess being an asshole was expected of me by this point.



Later that night, well past 11PM, I found myself with James Krees, hanging out in the trunk of his 1993 Chevy truck parked on a gravel road on the edge of town. James was smoking a cigarette, sitting with one leg stuck out and the other propped against the side of the truck-bed. I was sitting on the edge of the trunk, slouched over a can of cheap beer. James was probably the only person I considered a friend, and by that I mean he was the only person I tolerated enough to even think about hanging out with for an extended period of time.

“I just feel kind of alone, you know? Not really lonely, but, like, I just can’t really relate to anyone.” I said, instantly realizing how whiny that sounded.

“Then get a girlfriend, dude.” James said, exhaling a cloud of smoke upwards into the stars. “Simple as that.”

“Well, I really wish it were that simple. At least, it probably is for you. I mean, you have pretty much no inhibitions or whatever.”

“Whatever dude. I just know I have a girlfriend right now because I actually tried.”

“Oh my God, you’re infuriating.”

“Well, at least I’m right.” James said in a fairly stuck up manner.

‘Well, at you’re an asshole too,’ I thought.

“Ok, here’s my problem. I sort of idealize relationships a lot, like, I feel like if I ever got into one, my idealized thoughts would end up making me think it’s not good enough and that would lead to its already inevitable demise.”

I stopped for breath. James didn’t respond. He was staring intently at the moon.

“I think about people and things way to hard. I over analyze everything and, in perpetuity, I create these problems for myself that don’t even exist.”

I waited for him to speak this time. He seemed preoccupied. After a moment, without looking down from the shining orb in the sky, he said, “It always manages to astound me how insufferably eloquent you sound even while drunk.”

“Go on,” I said, ignoring his snide comment about my forced pretension.

“Well,” he began, buttoning the top two buttons on his flannel plaid shirt, “like I said, you need to make an effort. You need to take the risks you’re too scared to take. I did, and things are looking pretty good for me in the relationship department. I mean, if you stopped being so damn cynical all the time you might actually get somewhere.”

He finally looked down from the moon and stared directly into my eyes with an intensity I’ve only seen in him at football games and when he’s really pissed off.

“Woah there dude,” I said, sarcastically holding up my hands and smiling. “No need to take cheap shots. I know I’m cynical as hell, but you don’t need to point it-”

“Maybe I do need to point it out. If a person can acknowledge their faults then they should be able to change them, right?” My smile faded a little more with every word he spoke.

“Again, it’s not that simple.” I said, a little confused as to why he was being so aggressive.

“Whatever, dude,” James said, resuming his study of lunar phenomena. I could tell there was something a bit off with him.

After a few more minutes of sitting in silence, I asked, “What’s your problem tonight, anyway?”

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, studied the burning tip for a few seconds, and took a couple more drags before saying, “Among other things, my problem is that you expect too much.” He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “See, you obviously want to get what you want, but you never want to work for it. Then you just b**** all the time.”

“Calm down, dude,” I said, worrying that this could escalate further. After all, things like this have happened before. “I know what you mean, but-”

“Cut the bullshit. Okay, so what if I’m pissed off. That’s what you do to me constantly.”
He was speaking very quickly. The cigarette was furiously bouncing up and down between his lips. It drew my attention more than his burning eyes or flying hand movements. Fortunately, he tore it out of his mouth and threw it on the ground a few feet away from the truck.

He continued: “It should never take anyone this much time to realize that their life isn’t a John Hughes movie, or an episode of Skins, or a John Green book. Life isn’t perfect. Life isn’t even ideal. But you know what it is? Life is what you make of it.”

I was stunned. The words stung, even though I already knew they were all true.

“What, you don’t think I know how the real world feels?” I snapped back, trying to redeem myself.

Before I could answer my own question, James interrupted my thoughts. “No, Brian, you don’t. What you know is what it feels like to continually set your standards too high and have them smashed into the dirt. So no, you don’t know what the ‘real world’ feels like.” He badly imitated my voice on the words ‘real world,’ and made sarcastic hand gestures to mimic quotation marks. “I mean, you’ve never felt real sickness, you’ve never felt real pain,” he paused, “and you’ve never even felt real loss.”

I could feel tears just starting to tickle my eyes. As a kid I was always too emotional. Even into my teenage years I would occasionally find someone telling me the absolute truth, and whatever they said would get driven home so hard that I just felt like crying. Nothing I could say to James now would be able to provide any kind of catharsis on my behalf.

“Screw you.” I said, looking down at my beer to hide my moist eyes. My voice was surprisingly small.

“Good one,” he said. “Now I hope you think on this a little bit while you walk home.”

“Wha-” I didn’t notice that he had gotten up and walked towards me.

James grabbed me by the shoulders, hanging onto my sweater as I tried to push him away. After a few second’s struggle he succeeded in throwing me off of my narrow seat on the edge of the truck. My stomach dropped as I fell backward. Sharp gravel pierced the skin on my back as I slammed into the ground. My head smacked the hard packed earth. Dazed, I heard James climbing into the front seat and turning on the truck. The engine roared to life right beside my ears. Dirt and rocks flew into my face as he peeled away from the side of the road. I propped myself up on my elbows, wincing as I felt a few drops of blood trickle down my back.

“YOU SON OF A B****,” I screamed, watching the truck rumble away into the distance. As it disappeared over a hill I laid back down.

Turning my head to the side, I saw the unfinished cigarette still smoking itself on the ground. James had thrown it away as carelessly as he threw me off of the truck. I had no idea why he was so angry. And he was the one calling me cynical.

What I experienced next was not the epiphany I think James expected me to, but instead a cold chill as the late October wind rushed through a nearby cornfield. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. I knew nothing more than I had an hour ago, when I agreed to come out here with him. All that was new was a deeper feeling of loneliness than I had before.

This relatively minor inconvenience did nothing to diffuse my cynicism or my pretension. I still felt alone. I still felt like no one understood me. I still felt like I deserved better.

I picked myself up slowly, grimacing as my head pounded while the torn skin across my back stretched. Straightening up, I stomped out the cigarette smoldering next to my foot, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and called home.