An Open Letter to My Childhood Dreams

Dear Childhood Dreams,


I'm approaching the period of life when you're supposed to find your true calling. As such, i've had to put up with a lot of your crap.

When I was a dinosaur-loving pre-pubescent, I thought-- no-- I knew I was going to be a dinosaur "when I grew up". Shortly after those three blissfully ignorant weeks, a 3rd grade classmate, whom I shall always hold partly to blame, told me that it was impossible to become a giant carnivorous lizard. But ultimately, it is your fault, Childhood Dreams. If it wasn't for you, I would've had normal aspirations. Alas, I was stuck believing that I would one day be stomping on the heads of my enemies with my enormous cold-blooded feet.

I cannot discredit what we had throughout Middle school. What we had then was real and unabashed. At first it was simple: an officer of the law, a firefighter-- hell, I would've settled with my seventh grade dream of becoming a child combatant prodigy after reading Ender's Game.

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Just like you, Childhood Dreams, have come to an end. And as I sit, reading through another fourteenth century poem about nothing, I dream. I dream about the things I should be doing. The things you convinced me as a kid I would one day live to accomplish.

I am not shooting snakes out of my eyes. I am not a six-foot-tall, kickboxing tortoise. I am not time traveling. And I am not a pilot... That operates a robotic pterodactyl.

You and I had a good thing going. But you never took it seriously. I tried to look passed it. Thanks to you, I had no second thoughts when I wanted to be a shark with legs. Until I graduated highschool, there was a (very small) part of me that still thought we could make it work. I'm married now, Childhood Dreams. Responsible for two. I can't see you anymore.

Maybe one day I'll see that what you were doing was for the best. But not today. Not now.

Kowabunga, dude.

Sincerely,

Charles.

     

My Weekend:

I was fifteen minutes late to the funeral of Glenn and Marty Murdoc. You've probably read about them in the paper. Lightning struck a tree and collapsed the roof of an elderly couple. That was the Murdocs.

I got to the viewing late. Their caskets were side by side. They've been that way since the day they married. Well, not the casket part.

After the ceremony, I was volunteered by my parents to help clean the Murdoc's house. I had moved out a couple of months ago. I could’ve had something more pressing to attend to. But the truth is I didn’t. And they probably knew that.

I may not have known the couple very well, but I did know that they would turn over in their freshly buried caskets if they knew who was standing amidst all their worldly possessions. Fidelity, Viola, and Jeremiah Petersen. Fidelity and Viola were God’s best little volunteers in the county. Jeremiah was the gayest.

Vicious Cycle.

Sen. Lemming signs Heath Reform Bill, Nation Jumps Off Cliff.

Behind The Times

I have known the existence of Craigstlist for some time, but only today have I ever visited it.
It has ADs for some of the most wonderfully bizarre things.


"Looking for college drop-out polynesians, 20s, preferably named david."

A Road Less Traveled

     When somebody tells you that they "walk the path" of anything, you should either be looking into the face of a pimpled 16 year old wearing a shirt that reads "Anything for My Clan" and babbling on about the latest update for Mass Slayings III: The Portal Of Death and if that's the case, you've got bigger problems; or at the very least, sitting in a sermon of a pastor. But when an average pastel-wearing 20-something who is so familiar that you could've gone to school with her, says that she "walks the Path of Modesty" that's when you judge them. After all, it isn't everyday that someone says something so absurd.

Pro Bono

I've married and moved out, so it's only logical that I have no Internet connection-- which is a blogger's worst nightmare.

Watermelon Playground

All Mondays are so slow, so monotonous, so dreary that in the back of your mind, you know something is going to go horribly wrong or terribly right by the end of the day-- but let's face it-- it's Monday. Nothing good is going to happen. Nothing.

I say all Mondays, because the people who think they had it good are suffering from dementia. Or live with their parents and work at the comic book store 4 hours a day.

I'm not jealous. I had my tonsils removed on a Monday. When I was 9. The Beach Boys were barely audible. But they were there. To this day I get dry mouth and smell that sweet and sour nothingness of the doctors office when I listen to "Kokomo". I was sitting in an over sized chair, staring at children half my age, playing with second rate Fisher-price toys. The Doctor walked into the waiting room and called my name. I pretended not to hear. My dad raised his hand for me. Thanks Dad. The Doctor was smiling behind that stupid mask that they all wear. He asked if I was ready in a tone that implied I may never wake up after the procedure, and if I did, it would be hell. Then he said something about ice cream. But I wasn't listening. I was trying to figure out why he was smiling. Did he enjoy ripping out useless tissue? While I lay on the operating table, breathing in that gas that makes everything incoherent and unreal, he asked me to count backward from 100. "No, sir. I will not count backward from 100. I'm 9, not stu...p...iddd..."

And what do you think was the first thing I woke up to? If you said, a crowd of doctors and nurses in stupid hats and stupid masks, smiling away like they just told the funniest joke at my expense, then you're right. Let's not forget about that small detail about the ice cream. It's not true. AND I was healthy enough to go to school the next day. Every Monday after that has been as dull as the last. Maybe it has something to do with the tonsils.

Sometimes, when I look at the clock and it's only been 5 minutes since the last time I prayed my shift was almost over, I hope someone out there won the lottery, or at least rear-ended that prick who owns that new Hummer. Just so they can say their day was eventful.