A cliche, bitching letter from Life

So you're told over and over again: This is the beginning of your life. This is the ending of the paralysis. But each day you wake up, throw on those predictable boxers your mother bought for you, do your homework the day it's assigned, and sleep the prescribed eight hours. I threw in a girl to provide some variety. The first day you saw her, you knew she was proof of God. Dat ass. Yet you would not be distracted from your studies. You would not experiment with the girl who only wanted to fuck you. You bore.

Bravo. Bravo for the acid kids in their fishbowl. Bravo for the straight A students and their shitty taste in music. Bravo for the writers who are slowly killing themselves one word at a time. Who are saving themselves from the cold broken-hearted reality of dying the unheard drunks on the sidewalk. Bravo, bravo, bravo.

This is where you come in and tell me I should clap for you. And so I stand slowly, and clap reluctantly. An encore. A standing ovation. A drink in hand I have to set on the arm of my chair. Congratulations for your thousands of misunderstandings. Congratulations for your acceptance to BYU. Congratulations for the win you penciled into your notebook. For those nights you stayed in doing homework instead of doing girls. 

And I breathe cigarette smoke into your face halfheartedly, and you wave it away instead of sucking it in. If you were my description of perfect, you would have breathed in the smoke like you were breathing in the scent of love and acceptance and want all rolled into one. Bravo, bravo.

But even though you aren't my idea of fun-loving, you're God's version of religious. Focused. You pray to God day in and day out, on your knees by your bedside table. And I'm told you'll be awarded in heaven for your good works. Well shit, that's great. But try some drugs. Punch some walls. Blast music in your car to turn heads. Sneak out. Add some more tongue into those kisses.

This may sound harsh. But yes, I dropped you headfirst on your first day and I didn't put much faith in you succeeding. Like a godfather, I watched you from afar. I have my principles and those don't include stepping in to warn about the coming heartbreak. About the flu season. Why I'm intervening now, I can't tell you. That Wednesday in May you totaled the car. I keep telling myself you deserved it. Telling myself I liked watching you flounder on your own.

I'm a jealous man, and so I wanted to see the blood seep through your skin like spirits. Liked to see you in red, which your mother never buys with that hair of yours. I was jealous enough to prevent Death from stealing you away from me. She could have made you happy. But you were mine. You were always mine.