(Sally: Let someone else tell you about this story. It has some rather harsh language you may not approve of.)
As I begin this story, I am sitting in my south Florida bay home staring out the window at a rainstorm, which has just knocked out my power. I am writing this on a computer with only 26% battery power (which disappears quickly these days) before this, too, has lost its usability. The sounds of sirens are going off in the distance. I’m certain due to a wayward lightning strike, which has set a building of little import to most of society on fire. Beyond the large elm in my front yard, well past the stone walkway and the dogwood trees, an occasional car will pass down the road. The car drives ever so cautiously in the rain, certain to be looking out for any rain-soaked animals, or children, running from the lightning in fear, searching for shelter. The sky is an eerie grey, not the black of night one might expect from a storm powerful enough to send me searching for candles and a lighter. This sky is one of an early morning, an overcast morning that could be filled with potential and possibility. This night, however, does not feel full of potential. I find myself sitting here, staring out the window, thinking one thing: “I am really glad I already cooked dinner.”
(*Sally: While this story has me doing a public service and attempting to be the chivalrous son you always wished I could be, it has lots of language and honesty about things I have done in the past. Skip it. But trust me when I say, “I did the right thing.”)
I just recently moved from Nashville, TN to the St. Petersburg area of Florida. It was difficult for me to just pick up and leave all of my friends in Nashville, as I have documented in the story I posted here, but as I like to say often is one thing leads to another. Every decision I have ever made has brought me here. Because of the decisions I made throughout my life I have this story to regale you with. This isn’t one of my best stories. It’s not even really that great. I didn’t learn anything from this, but I do feel it is a worthy enough story to pass along. I feel this way mainly because I am pretty sure I met the douchiest guy alive. This guy was so bad I told a condensed version of this story to my dad and he laughed out loud at the story. I texted a very condensed version of this story to a friend of mine and she noted that guys can be such pigs (She’s right. We can be). This is the story about “That Guy”.
(Sally: I’m beginning to think I should just block you from the site.)
The Monday after “One Fateful Saturday Night” I woke up but I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. In fact, I never wanted to wake up. I didn’t care about school. I didn’t care about my friends. I didn’t care about the fact that I was only a day away from the next Young Life meeting. I was disconnected with the world and there was only one person in it that mattered (that’s still me). I was a brooding teenager who had his world shattered in the same way that so many other teens had probably had their worlds shattered. And much like the rest of them who had similar situations occur in their lives I was unsure of how to deal with my life and the unfortunate incidents that occurred in them (a year or so later I would take part in the much more unhealthy act of self-mutilation, as opposed to the life altering decision I made this time around. I didn’t cut myself in that process but…well, if you ever see me and see many perfectly formed circle shaped scars on my body you will probably be able to figure out which version was my self-mutilation of choice, much to the dismay of Sally). Continue reading So, Where Were We?
(Sally: Skip it. Don’t read it. It brought up memories I didn’t want to relive, so I’m certain you feel even more passionate about that, because you have real feelings, and as we all know, mine are made up.)
(Everyone else: This is not as lighthearted and funny as most, you may not want to delve into this one.)
There was a time in my life where I was unsure of who I was, or where I was heading. I was a teenager, lost, like so many others were at that same age and while I figured that everyone else my age was going through the same sort of mental shit I was going through, I also felt as though my personal problems were worse than anything else anyone had ever gone through (the narcissism was rooted in me, it wasn’t learned). At the time, I was not the glowing beacon of confidence many people know today. I was unpopular. I was liked by very few people and not because of my personal feelings about myself, or the fact I thought I was better than everyone as I do now. Back then I was narcissistic, but I felt instead that people would never want to be my friend. I was the most important person in my world, that hasn’t changed, but I, for some reason, could not fathom a reason on why anyone else would want to like me, especially as much as I liked myself.