How many times did you trip and fall on that same piece on uneven sidewalk before you learned to walk on the other side of the street? By my count it is eleven, which doesn't make you the smartest person I have ever met, but whatever, you're good looking and that will get you somewhere.
All those restless nights of worry and tears really weren't worth much in the end. But hey, there were some laughs along the way. Remember that time that thing happened and we all laughed and high fived? I know you'll never forget it, mainly because your life isn't so great, and you sit up at night in the darkness thinking up things to worry about. What's that all about? Inventing things to worry about, it's a waste of time. I guess that's what makes you an artist.
The outside world, oh the big bad outside world, you can have it. I'm going out to the desert for a while. There's a camp in the wastelands that teaches you things about people and nature and walking around. There is a lot of walking around. In fact it is not a camp at all, it is just a location. There is a large rock somewhere in space and time. A tin can sits on the rock and I'll walk to it. I'll take a black pebble out of the can and walk back. Once I do this I will feel better about myself. It is task completion. I will have a sense of closure and a sense of accomplishment. The camp costs eight hundred dollars. Which brings me to the point, could I borrow some money?
I'll pay you back. It just might take me awhile. I started worrying about money too late in life, I know. Here, take my father's watch, he gave it to me before he died. Hold on to it until I get you the money, it will be collateral. And I know what you're going to say, my father's not dead. You've got a point, I'll admit it. But I wasn't talking about actual physical death I was talking about the metaphysical death of the soul. The kind of death that takes place after you buy a condo in Palm Springs, adopt a cat, and give your son a watch.
You know we can get it back, me and you. We can get back to that great place, kings of the hill, where the air is thin and it gets hard to breath. And doesn't that make each breath a little more worthwhile? Listen close: Hegel, Weber, Voltaire, Camus, DiMaggio. Understand? Marx Brothers, n'est-ce pas?
I guess what it all boils down to is that I hate you. Don't worry it's not hate in its purest form. It is a lazy kind of hate, one that uses very little energy and is not very time consuming; a Ron Popeil kind of hate. So make the check out to cash and we'll be square.
About the author:
Timmy is the Fiction Editor of Word Riot. His stories can be found or will be found in SNM's Words! 5, Johnny America, The American Drivel Review, Monkey Bicycle, Snow Monkey, Futures Mystery Anthology, Mcsweeneys.net, Slow Trains, Eyeshot, Pindeldyboz, Fiction Warehouse, Thieves Jargon, HackWriters, and Soma Literary Review. Only you can cool his desire.