Lost Day

Even though I ultimately set myself up for an apathetic response to my whole morning beverage debacle, I would hope that someone could imagine my disappointment when I woke up one Saturday morning to enjoy a cup of my favourite light roast coffee, only to be let down by its previously undetected, bland taste. This world class beverage had been the driving force of my life up until this very morning. It had been the single most important thing in my life; so much so that its existence facilitated my ability to endure the soul crushing banality of an uneventful adult life. Even when I was able to feel the liberating ease that came at the end of a long work week on a Friday night, I was inexplicably fixated on how enjoyable it would soon be to sip on a cup of the finest coffee known to man the next morning. Perhaps it was the pulsating levels of caffeine that triggered my weekly bouts of optimism, but I believe that my adoration for the hot beverage was deeply rooted in my desire to be alone.

            Wistfully thinking about the previous Sunday morning with a strange feeling of envy towards my former self, I remember how delectable my coffee tasted from the first satisfyingly sadistic scalding sip, to the last remorseful drop. Even the sediment from the stray grounds collecting at the bottom of the ceramic mug was highly anticipated- regarded as the rich desert following a bountiful meal. Not to sound braggadocios or to flaunt my educated palate like a long-winded Master Sommelier, but the powerful bitterness was accentuated by a pleasant nutty aroma, creating a flavour that could only be referred to as art. Therefore, I was devastated to taste what might as well have been a cup of generic instant coffee- diluted and robbed of any natural flavour.

            First attacking my ability to prepare the coffee correctly rather than taint the reputation of a well-established brew, I dumped the shameful concoction down the stainless-steel kitchen drain and adamantly unhinged the glass jar in which I stored my whole coffee beans. Breaking my rule of grinding only enough beans to equal a rounded tablespoon of grounds (enough to brew one single two hundred and fifty millilitre mug to perfection), I scooped the toasted beans into the grinder and tried once again to revive the legacy of my award winning, South American libation. Once the water’s temperature rose to a rapid boil, spewing sizzling water droplets over the rim of the metal pot, I let the water flow onto the loosely settled grounds at the bottom of the French press, instigating a reaction that would soon yield the world’s most cherished drink. As I firmly pressed down on the plunger with the palm of my right hand after ten minutes of impatience, I poured the caramel coloured liquid into a clean mug and watched as the steamed twirled up from the still surface. Staring at what very well might have been an unfaithful lover or a traitorous business partner, I trembled as I reached for the cool ceramic handle, raising it to my eager lips in hopes of putting my fears of discontent at bay. Slurping the coffee as to allow the beverage to wash over each of the four taste areas of my tongue, I was hit with an irreversible sense of dismay; my beloved coffee had turned on me.

            Speechless as I poured the pipping hot cup of disappointment down the drain, feeling a type of sorrow I assume someone would feel if they had lost a loved one, resentment shadowed my sadness. I could not fathom the peak of narcissism that Cass reached by ending our relationship on the same day that my favourite drink lost its ability to lift my spirits. Never believing in coincidences, I was convinced that her departure was planned knowing that I would soon learn to hate my coffee, thereby ruling out any means of consolation. Although I am still uncertain as to how Cass- with her mediocre talents, lack of foresight, and minimal intelligence- would have predicted the ultimate expiration date of my coffee beans, I will not underestimate her devious ways.

            Very much like the newly discovered, unsatisfactory taste of my coffee, Cass is also unforgivably bitter, distasteful, and repulsively bold. Unfortunately, I was not able to merely pour her down the drain and search for an improved blend, rather I was forced to watch her leave with every object in the apartment- except for the French press, which too seems like a conniving way to teach me a lesson. Moreover, the loss of my favourite coffee will undoubtedly have much more of a negative impact on my weekly routine than Cass ever could.

While the morning beverage encouraged me to face the day with an uncharacteristic sense of invincibility, Cass would stare at me impatiently from across the breakfast nook with her piercingly blue eyes, making it known that she was not receiving enough of my attention. Whenever I would confront her on the obviously condemning stare, she would claim that she was merely lost in thought and enjoyed watching me enjoy something so irreplaceable. That would then send me into a frenzy of agitation- as per her coy agenda- and ruin the rest of my long-sought-after, Sunday.

Incapable of letting go of those dreadful Sundays spent in absolute silence with Cass overtly upset following our weekly argument, it still drives me mad to think of how self-involved she would act. With no regard for my happiness or need for relaxation and contemplation, I would be forced to abandon any hope of spending a few solitary minutes on my own self-care and instead fixate on her inexplicable need for pity. Come to think of it, the hours of teary eyed deep contemplation were most likely utilized to plan the perfect way to leave my life- with emphasis on my Sunday mornings- in shambles. Despite her shallow façade, perhaps she did possess a bit of forethought after all. Having said that, it is hard to believe her constant claims regarding my apparent inability to give her the slightest bit of credit; I could now say the same to her if I had even a morsel of desire to reconnect with her.

Now that I have gotten her infuriatingly persistent flaws off my chest, I will not give her the upper hand by continuing to share my attention with her memory for another second, as much as she would love to silently boast about how much I admired her social standing, professional accomplishment, and classically beautiful features. Therefore, I will not inflate her already stretched ego by allowing her to manifest herself in the forefront of my mind any longer. Having taken away my coffee and virtually all our shared furnishings, I will not willingly donate my focus- not to mention the limited space with which I retain cherished memories.

Before I could channel my unruly focus onto something less aggravating- thereby preventing a typhoon of unwelcomed memories revolving around my time spent with Cass- from overflowing into the shallow depths of my mind, the thousands of intrusive memories equalled the shards of glass shattered on the kitchen floor. Having transferred my aggression towards Cass and her manipulative personality onto my blameless French press, it felt my misdirected wrath as I impulsively hurled it onto the white tiles of the kitchen floor. Too many appliances and household items alike have admittedly been destroyed during what could only be described as temporary episode of anger-induced insanity.

Ashamed of my irrational destruction, I stood still on the far side of the kitchen to ponder my next moves, both physically and existentially. Fearful of the transparent shards of glass that camouflaged nicely on top of the meticulously clean tiled floor, I dreaded the inevitable pain that would ensue once I collected even the smallest shred of glass with the soles of my bare, pedicured feet. As I carefully planned my steps with a level of stealth that is only matched by the most limber of contortionists, I dreaded the other kind of pain that would soon overwhelm my sensitive spirit. Although this pain I am referring to is predominantly emotional in nature, it does indeed pack a powerful sting typically felt in the abdomen and chest. This multi-faceted pain is a result of an impending hopelessness felt in the aftershock of losing a tolerated companion and essential coffee brewer. With both of those things absent in my life, there was little left to look forward to in terms of excitement and satisfaction; then there were the positive emotions I would never again feel after having lost Cass, like security and comfort.

Dancing around in a well choreographed manner, avoiding the invisible razor sharp pieces of glass, I was hit with an unreasonable amount of grief. Grief was a foreign color on my palette of emotions, previously felt only once in my life at the tender age of seven upon hearing of my guinea pig, Stanley’s untimely murder (taken from me after his overcompensating, yet brave heart naively battled old lady Vargas’ blood thirsty tabby cat, Edward on an unforgettably miserable July day). Usually replaced by useful emotions like envy and skepticism, grief never seemed to facilitate a functional purpose, instead encouraging a sense of futile vulnerability. Therefore, I was caught off guard when I was forced to observe remnants of my recently departed coffee maker and partner tossed all over my apartment- pieces of glass printed with disorganized letters that spelled out “coffee” in a dyslexic order and tacky feminine knickknacks invaded my field of vision from all angles. Wallowing in the strange grief that selfishly commandeered my once pragmatic disposition like an unexpected act of emotional terrorism, the pain steadily washed over my body as though I was in some sort of mortal danger. Fearing I was on the cusp of experiencing the more familiar sensation of a panic attack, I was reassured to spot the heel-sized smudges of blood trailing behind me; the pain was thankfully a result of a tangible, physical injury rather than an uncontrollably abstract mental crisis.

Still surrounded by veritable landmines of unnoticeable broken glass, my left heel continued to bleed quite profusely as the substantial piece of French press glass jostled the torn skin with every ill-advised motion. Overwhelmed by my inability to evade such a trivial inconvenience, I was appreciative to have never received a calling to join the military- my participation in any line of national defence would have obviously had unfortunate consequences for myself, my fellow soldiers, and my country. Humbled by the defeating predicament I had myopically created for myself, I tried with every ounce of resourcefulness to rise above the unfortunate circumstances and escape relatively unscathed. I then manoeuvered my body in such a way to optimize balance by pantomiming a nerve wrecking promenade on a sky high tight rope, then swiftly rotating my hips to gain enough momentum to propel my injured foot securely in the kitchen sink.

Stretched out beyond any assumed comfort known to man, I utilized the dormant yoga skills once taught to me by Cass’ overzealously organic Pilates instructor, aptly named Herb. Although Herb’s excessively optimistic outlook on life was more naïve than that of an ambitious lemming with a bird complex, he did provide me with some basic flexibility techniques that allowed me to bend my torso forward to nearly a ninety-degree angle long enough to retrieve the deeply penetrated shard of glass from my swollen flesh. Instantly remembering my irrational fear of blood with impeccably inopportune timing, I became unnervingly light headed, which prompted me to briefly close my eyes in an attempt to ward off the subsequent fainting that would undoubtedly result in the acquisition of many more flesh wounds from the jagged glass below. Despite my attempts at maintaining consciousness, it became apparent that Herb forgot to mention that a lack of vision, even for a split second, would greatly compromise my balance and disrupt the delicate pose I had manifested.

Foiled by my own fear of fainting, my seemingly secured foot slipped from the slick steel sink, hurling my unsteady body to the glass covered floor. As I fell onto the newly crushed glass, my shoulder made first contact with the serrated edges, making my supple skin feel as though it had been singed with an entire pack of lit cigarettes. The next body part to endure the pain resulting from my unregulated fit of rage was my protruding hip, which acted as a pin cushion for a single, slender shard of glass. Subsequently immobilized by the pain and isolated humiliation, my body laid on the floor pierced with multiple pieces of glass, unwilling to budge a millimeter to the left or right in fear of introducing yet another wound to my traumatized limbs. Although my body was immobilized, my mind exploited the inactivity to revisit the dread of having to face the following days alone and uncaffeinated.

Offering the slightest bit of comfort as I laid defeated on the cold tiles of my unfurnished kitchen, I caught a glance of the only thing mounted on the off-white adjacent wall: a calendar. On this calendar- adorned with a subjectively whimsical picture of a cartoon penguin sunbathing atop a floating ice cap- the bold red font reminded me that it was in fact the month of July. Although that Sunday had been left vacant, the following day was filled in with Cass’ nauseatingly perfect handwriting, indicating that we were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary that day. The reason I was overjoyed with this oversight was because we had an inconvenient ritual each year on the anniversary of our first date that involved us returning to the elegant, yet overpriced restaurant where I first chose to bring her.

In a self-loathing attempt to simulate wealth and a higher degree of class, I insisted that we dine at the Italian bistro Golosità, where the romantic ambiance comes at an exorbitant price. As if it wasn’t enough of a shock to pay for Cass’ expensive taste on a first date, she found it necessary to order the exact same dishes as we did on our first date; she claimed that it was romantic, but I am certain it was just her passive aggressive way of reminding me of the extravagent lifestyle I kept her from enjoying. Therefore, being the master of patronization she had grown to be, Cass would start off the meal by ordering the $17 proscuitto and aged cheese platter for an appetizer, which was piled high with enough artery clogging trans fats to induce a fatal myocardial infarction right there on the neatly pressed table cloth. To wash the elegant assortment of  fat down her gullet, she'd order two glasses of Italian red wine totalling a whopping $32 even though I much prefer to drink free flat water while in public as to avoid embarrassing purple stains on my teeth. When she'd arrive at the entree, she'd point at the veal parmesan despite her apparent love of cute baby farm animals and the even more disturbing combined price of $63. Then, to frivolously spend my last hard earned dollars, she would actually order the dessert special costing $16 that consisted of two cups of espresso accompanied by two separate, substantial pieces of tiramisu cake. Every year my bill would come to at least $128 plus tax- not to mention the rate of inflation that was of course taken into account when the restauranteur re-evaluated his already unafforable menu.

As much as it pained me to spend what took me hours upon hours of mind-numbling work to earn in a matter of a forty-five minute, inauthentic Italian meal, it baffled me to know that Cass disregarded the finances of the under paid waitress whose tip suffered greatly. Reduced from the standard fifteen percent to a dismal six percent due to my inability to charge the entire meal on my nearly maxed out credit card, the real victim was our server. Of course she would flaunt her own success by offering to pay each year, jabbing at what was left of my compromised masculinity, but I would never let her have that over me- I would much rather eat instant noodles with synthetic chicken flavoured seasoning powder for the rest of the month than allow her to bid on my self-worth.

Suffice it to say, I was relieved to know that I would not have to foot the bill on this year’s extravagent meal. The only peculiarity about Cass’ decision to leave the day of our anniversary was that I would have expected her to at least enjoy one last free dinner before jumping to her next meal ticket. Except of course if her plan had been a strategy established immediately following our last anniversary outing, pre-meditating one last blow to my self-esteem, while reminding me once and for all that I would never earn enough to satisfy the lavish needs of a woman of her stature. Justifiably so, I was not a man of means by any means. Due to my inexplicable tendency to follow a misdirected career path paved with substance rather than superficial wealth, I stunted my potential of becoming the world’s next troublingly youthful billionaire by aspiring to be a writer.

Having noticed at a young age that I was exceedingly better with the written word than the spoken word, I chose to disregard the philosophy of public school systems of trying to improve a child’s weaknesses, while ignorning the strengths- paying little to no attention to the innate skills one is born with as they fade with time. Therefore, I began to write every thought that crossed my juvenile mind, no matter how derivative or uninspiring. This led me to work on my craft to construct sentences and subsequent stories with perfectly chosen words, like a bricklayer would with chisled chunks of concrete with the intention of eventually building an exquisite, completely unique skycraper. While I scribbled down what seemed to me as untapped genius, other children socialized as schoolyard children do- experimenting with their newfound sexuality with harmless cheek kisses, developing friendships with the idea that they would last a lifetime, and simply enjoying the blissful accountability of youth, remaining blissfully ignorant to the debilitating accountability that waited for them as adults.

I would watch my classmates with an undeserved sense of superiority, questioning their motives for partaking in such unproductive activities. Having felt as though I had already begun working towards being an iconic writer, ensuring my name would live on in infiny like the greats of ours or any other generation; at the time time, the greats consisted of Seuss, Munsch, and Silverstein. In self-condemning retrospect, it was I who squandered my youth by partaking in a futile endeavor. Had I been given the foresight to appreciate the importance of socialization, developing at an early age the skills to establish healthy friendships and partnerships, I might have been able to one day avoid laying on a kitchen floor, mirroring the structural integrity of my once sturdy coffee press.

Shattered by the realization that I had once again been left in isolation, alone with the one personality I truly could not stand in existence, I opened my eyes and took a fresh look at the obstacle course of broken glass that laid around me. Being the most resourceful after deeming a predicament impossible, I glanced towards the tiles leading up to the open door frame and clearly saw a staggered path free from dangerous debris, instilling a substantiated shimmer of hope that I would not be left to die on that ill-fated kitchen floor. Using my right shoulder blade as leverage, I propped my body up from the floor, high enough off the tile to maneouver the palms of my hands underneath my wounded hip, then used what little upper body strength I had to mimic a sprinter’s pose at a starting line. Once I regained my balance, I pressed off my right foot and dashed onto the open path, alternating feet as I jumped through the glass, landing my feet on each bare square foot of tile like a solider training with discarded truck tires. With much effort, I cleared the kitchen floor, leaving a trail of dried blood on the bare tiles behind me before entering into the safe zone of the living room, free from any hazardous materials that could compromise my health and safety.

Reaching what felt like a demilitarized zone, I breathed a breath of relief as my mind flooded with the traumatic memories of what I had just experienced. Unable to view the veritable crime scene ever again, I closed to kitchen door and locked the door knob as if I would never need to frequent that room of my apartment ever again. If I had the know-how and tools, I would have welded the locking mechanism, permanently closing that room until the end of time. As ideal and practical a simple act of metal fusion would be, I believe that action- however justifiable- would have led to the forfeiture of my security deposit. With my recent past literally behind closed doors, I ventured into the barren living room to witness the emptiness that Cass had vindictively left for me. Wandering around the central room of the apartment, noticing how misleading the landlord’s interpretation of “cozy” truly was in the online rental advertisement, I longed for my reclining leather couch to rest my aching back.

Not only did Cass rob me of my furniture, she ripped away the very comfort that allowed me to relax away the stressors of my day. Leave it to her to have more than one purpose for her malicious actions- the Queen of ulterior motives. Wallowing in my defeat, having lost the war against Cass’ unrelenting force of psychological warfare, I sat down on the carpeted living room floor and leaned my back against the closet bi-fold door. Granted I could have found a slightly more sturdy wall to prop up my injured body, I found the crease on the center of the door to provide a bit of wiggle room for my undoubtedly twisted spine. Sitting with my legs sprawled out before me, hands tossed onto the bloodstained  carpet with my palms facing the pristinely painted egg shell ceiling, I was the portrait of a victim. Rightfully feeling the pain that resulted from a far too familiar sense of vulnerability, I tried to self-soothe in order to ward off the unbecoming tears that would depict even the strongest man as broken.

Unable to trick myself into believing that I had even the slightest comprehension of what a coping mechanism was and how it was utilized, I engaged in the insane act of lying to myself. It was admittedly much harder to lie to myself than to others, as my inner monologue had become quite cynical of my sincerity over the years. I told myself that I was a resilient individual, equipped with the emotional stability to thwart even the most debilitating situations and that Cass would regret her malevolent scheme if she would have taken the time to truly acknowledge my strong, unwavering character. Nearly satisfied with my own self-directed charade, my dignity was once again demolished by the universe. If the universe were a character in a classic folk tale, it would be the trickster- always interfering with the hero’s journey, providing comic relief to the audience, all the while making the protagonist question his very purpose in life. The screws that connected the two panels of the closet door on which I had been leaning against broke free from the poorly installed hinges, hurling my unsupported head swiftly against the pseudo wooden door.

Laying with half of my body in the closet, with my head slightly tilted on the slanted door, the other half of my body laid still, hoping not to disturb the flimsy structure. Fearing another injury caused by my own carelessness, I could only lay catatonic and think about previous instances when I was led to feel inferior due to my poor construction abilities. Although I was not at fault for the flimsy closet door, since it was installed prior to moving in and was most probably built with cheap materials by unaccountable day labourers, making it unable to withstand the weight of a man’s body leaning against it, I must take the blame for several other pieces of poorly built furniture. In my defence, I never willingly accepted the job of assembling furniture, as I am fully aware of my downfall in the area of basic construction and visual puzzles. Rather, it was Cass who insisted that I build each piece of furniture she bought as a way to cut costs. Although she insincerely suggested that she pay the supplemental cost for the department store employees to build the furniture upon delivery, it was very much implied that if I didn’t offer to assemble it myself, I would be immasculated in the face of other, more capable men.

Once again avoiding a chance for Cass to shine a light on my shortcomings, I would begrugingly take on the duty of building what might as well have been life size puzzles, delivered with an inappropriate amount of puzzle pieces. Before the assembling would even commence, I would already be at wits end wrestling with the obscene amount of packaging that wrapped around the individual pieces. Starting with the monstrous cardboard box that held the contents- one big enough to comfortably ship an African elephant overseas- I would be at odds with the unnecessary number of industrial staples and frivolous amounts of packing tape. The entire package looking like a child’s ridiculous attempt at wrapping his first Christmas gift for his mother or father.

Once the unpenetrable encasement was ripped away in a thousand pieces, each measuring no bigger than my thumb- meanwhile cutting every inch of my forearms with irritatingly slender slices- I would have a miniature anxiety attack as I pawed through the ecological disaster consisting of several pounds of foam. Ranging in a variety of shapes and sizes for no apparent reason other than to cover both my entire being and apartment with a blizzard of hazardous synthetic fibers, the flammable bits would fuel my escalating rage. Finally, after looking like a self-harming snowman, I would then retrieve the assortment of wood and plastic pieces, accompanied by a hefty bag filled to the brim with an intimidating amount of screws and one toy sized Allen key. If this wasn’t enough to send me into a frenzy of self-doubt, I would naively open the deceivingly thin instruction booklet, comprised of a maximum of four illustrations. First flipping to the end of this disheartening picture book for masochistic adults- as if the final image would instill optimism in an otherwise overwhelmed demeanor- I would glance at the images leading up to the last, overdrawn with numbers and ambiguously directed arrows.

Defeated before I could even connect the first two oblong pieces, I would persevere until all but five screws and one seeming important piece of wood was left next to the pile of packing debris. Then, not only would I have to wallow in my inability to fit in the snug masculine gender role society expected of me, I would have the displeasure of looking at the structurally unstable television stand every night until taken from me from a cold partner- fulfilling its purpose as a ready-to-assemble reminder of my own perpetual failure. The kicker was that Cass knew the details of my mental illness as an adolescent and still pushed me to the brink of relapsing into a compulsive disorder by ensuring that I was made aware of imperfections. Even worse, I was reminded of imperfections that could have otherwise been perfect if a capable man had taken over and replaced me.

In all honesty, most of my mental abnormalities have laid dormant since my formative years, after much time spent scolded by authoritative figures and mocked by peers. I must say- intentionally fanning the flames of my sweltering ego- that I was successful in combatting debilitating thoughts and actions by merely taking control of my mind, thereby creating new paths with which it could work normally and efficiently. By the age of thirteen I came to realize that I was approaching a level of social maladjustment only matched by those teenagers enjoying their high school years in a locked psychiatric ward. Up until that point, my thought patterns were completely justified by the fact that I hadn’t any friends of a similar age to realize how bizarre I had become. Stuck in a world with certain overzealous rules and values that I had created for myself, I became a slave to my own fabricated reality and quickly grew exhausted from the pressure I had placed upon myself.

Confidently passing the blame for my previously unhealthy mental state to my parents, I had grown up with a harsh type of discipline that would turn any innately typical person into a broken, beaten down man. This cruel and unusual type of discipline was used to deter me from thinking or doing something out of line, ranging in extremes from leaving an untidy bed in the morning to ruminating about ending my own life. Whatever the scenario, my mother and father would approach the situation in the only way they knew how, with the tools their parents had given them as children. Not to justify their abusive behaviour by once again passing blame like a hot potato, but I believe the person who should take the blame for generations of torment would be one of my sadistic ancestors, as this form of abuse is definitely the only inheritance anyone in my family has ever received. To clarify before I make a mountain out of a molehill by implying that my daily punishments were more severe than one might be led to expect, I was not the victim of corporal punishment, but a torturous crime much more traumatizing: guilt.

Having been subjected to the emotionally traumatizing and socially debilitating effects of passive aggressive parenting and excessive guilt, I entered into an important chapter of my life excessively self-aware. Since teenagers are already subjected to an inner turmoil that has never been or never again will be felt over the course of one’s unnecessarily long life, my struggle had reached epic proportions feeling as though I had a persistent civil war being fought between my combattive mind and oppressed body. While my pesky little quirk was beginning to blossom to a full-fledged mental disorder, I was embarking on a trecherous journey into high school, where the anguish of adolescent development would exacerbate my worsening condition.

In addition to the hormonal struggle that occurs when taking my first- not to mention hardest- steps toward manhood, I was subjected to the social right of passage that every man takes. Generalizing the social development of the entire male population to mirror my own in an attempt to normalize the behaviour of my suspectedly deviant classmates, I fear that my experience may not have been typical- or even socially acceptable by any society’s standards. Starting on my very first day of class as a high school freshman, I entered through the intimidatingly large entrance doors of Thompson High School to be promptly greeted by the swift flick of a senior boy’s wrist into my unprotected genitals. Acting as a reliable indicator for what I was going to endure over the next five years, the radiating pain that shot upwards through my pelvic bone into my stomach made me feel as though my appendix was about to burst. Overwhelmed by the inescapable nausea originating from my afflicted testicles, I was brought to my knees, crippled by a single sadistic act of pointless teenage tomfoolery.

As my attacker stood over me like a hunter over a prized ten point trophy buck, I laid incapacitated by the unanticipated blow. He then snickered and quickly received praise from another like-minded- albeit savage- seventeen year old boy, acknowledging his impecable ability to bring a boy half his size and weight to his knees via genital trauma. Once the pain subsided and the humiliation replaced its debilitating effects, I slowly picked myself up off the ground and kept my focus on my feet in hopes of avoiding eye contact with another Neanderthal disguised as a harmless student. Moreover, the chances of receiving unwanted attention from the school’s female population were greatly reduced if I tried my very best to appear inconspicuous. From that point on, my various black leather dress shoes were the only thing I saw as I walked through the halls of that dreaded school over the course of the next five years.

Having acquired a submissive, yet effective way of protecting both my pride and vulnerable genitals from the physically superior, presumably athletic, male student body, I was able to coast through high school only suffering from the burden of my own mental state. As I believe suicide is a much more dignified way of dying in contrast to being murdered, I believe I retained much self-respect by allowing only myself to be my biggest bully. As I grew both physically and emotionally, my condition continued to worsen. What had started out as a mild inconvenience by counting the number of tiles on the waxed hallway floors or reciting one single verse of The Beatles’ song “She Said, She Said”, eventually turned into a condition that prevented me from enjoying a single moment throughout any given day. By the time I reached the eleventh grade, standing at my present underdeveloped height of five foot five inches and persistently overdeveloped weight of one hundred and ninety pounds, I had emersed myself in my obsessions and compulsions.

Unable to function as any normative sixteen year old boy, I spent every waking hour fixating on neglibile issues that I suspect never cross a normative person’s mind. Each morning I would wake up with the dread of facing another exhausting day as the defective man I had let myself become.  Delicately stepping out of my bed as to not jostle my meticulously placed bed sheets, I would avoid potential hours of fidgeting with the linens to leave them perfectly straight for when I returned that night. I would then arrive at school at least fort-five minutes late most mornings due to my anal tendencies; not including the nights I had enjoyed vivid imaginings of fictious, yet breathtaking women in my dreams, which resulted in the subsequent time it took me to wash my sheets the next morning and to deal with the shame of my body’s neglected sexuality. Consequently, before my first class of the day even started, I had filled my own mind with enough unwarranted guilt and insecurity to ensure that I could not focus on another topic for the rest of the day.

Looking for even the slightest bit of comfort or reassurance that my sexuality was not unhygienic or a symptom of an aberrant personality, I turned to my equally dysfunctional parents in hopes of gaining some long awaited relief. To my dismay, they reinforced my belief that indulging my lesser urges was barbaric, adding that if I were to develop a strong sense of self-control, I would basically benefit from the strength resulting from sexual frustration. Taking their extremist perspective to heart, I continued to repress my urges and suffer the humility following my bi-weekly noctural emission. In fact, the argument my parents delivered so eloquently led me to live a life of celibacy and self-restraint only endured by men of the cloth. Although it proved to be hard- both figuratively and literally- for the majority of my young adulthood, I used the majority of my energy to avoid sexual situations. It was only until Cass took it upon herself to act as a sexual martyr by guiding her inexperienced, fumbling boyfriend through the ins and outs of love making. This of course was another way in which she held the upper hand, subsequently instilling an unshakable sense of inferiority, but I digress from the point that my high school experience had provided little preparation for what was to come.

Shortly before graduation, after many semesters of subpar test scores and self-deprecation, my distracted presence in school had made my academic career an insult to the world of academia. Subjected to the shortsighted philosophy held by my school of “no student left behind”, my teachers happily forged my transcripts as to move me on. Thereby avoiding being forced to deal with my persistent ticks- primarily consisting of clearing my throat as the thought of phlegm disgusted me to my core and fluttering of my fingers to rub off imaginary grains of dirt from my hands. Unfortunately, I was given the grandiose delusion that I had been able to succeed regardless of my lack of efforts in studying, leading me to believe- like many undeservingly privileged individuals of my Millenial generation- that I could achieve greatness effortlessly.

Amidst an agressive mental condition, I left the never before recognized security of being a high school student and ventured into what I naively considered to be the “real world”. Despite a lack of career prospects or admission into an accredited college, I continued to live with my parents, perpetuating my foibles, invariably incapacitating my personal development. I found that the only way I could escape the unpleasantness of my being was to engage in creative writing. Finding it quite therapeutic, I would write both fiction and non-fiction, describing disturbed characters- who may or may not have been stand-ins for myself- in plotlines where they eventually prove all the skeptics in their lives wrong by succeeding. At first, my irrational complusions would turn a five hundred word story into a week long endeavor, as my need to write everything by hand rather than efficiently using a computer proved to be quite time consuming. Moreover, I would waste hours upon hours on puncutation, since it was a necessity to have perfectly spherical periods, symmetrical quotation marks, and vertically aligned colons (with the help of a ruler and my father’s level he once used to hang a crucifix over the doorway in the kitchen).  

            Although my writing had initially been a simple form of escapism, doubling as an effective coping mechanism, I was extremely lucky to have written a suprisingly uplifting blog about one of my characters committing suicide. This posting had pulled the attention of an editor at the local newspaper, The Harrowing Herald, who reached out and offered me a staff position in the obituary department since a seasoned writer had just received a promotion to the “Classifieds” section. Naturally, I jumped at the convenient opportunity and emersed myself in the business of describing the lives of the recently departed. Exceling in the field, I was given accolades for my ability to transform a innately unfortunate circumstance into an entertaining story, filled with hope and passion. This previously undiscovered talent was even a shock to myself, as I would have never referred to myself as an optimist, let alone a self-procclaimed lover of life, but it was nonetheless present, using it to gain medicore financial stability.   Most of my work follows a proven formula to enlighten an otherwise disheartened audience: beginning with a mundane anecdote involving the deceased, followed by a brief shout-out to family members in order of importance. The most well received order of family members is typically spouse, children, grandchildren, parents, then finally siblings in the case that the deceased in fact had any of these family members. If not, then I would list aunts/uncles, cousins, and friends. Recently, I had the literary challenge of writing about a young man who led a solitary life and managed to remain estranged from every single person who could be expected to love him; in the end I simply fabricated the presence of a beloved golden retriever puppy and focused most of the story on the imaginary dog named, Franklin. Not my finest bout of creativity, but I did receive some positive feedback from my editor, which is all that really matters at the end of the day.

            One might think that emphasizing the brilliance of a person’s life would bring about a type of existential reassurance, perhaps allowing me to pursue a life of fulfillment despite various obstacles and occassions of defeat along the way. This may be true for someone who looks at the world without paranoia eyes, but for myself, I view my job as a futile way of bringing meaning to virtually insignificant lives by summarizing a few glamourous details in no more than five hundred words. Forced to fit a minimum of eleven obituaries per page and a maximum of thirteen, as to allow for adequate room for the bridal announcements on the following page but also to maintain a steady cash flow from grieving families wishing to share the memory of a loved one, I squeeze in the memories of the recently deceased in tight, pre-destined spaces, like the rows in a cemetary. My intention is not to beat the point to death, rather to make it clear that our lives will be but a footnote alongside many others, who barely receive the recognition for the lives they have led. Genuinely or superficially, morally or corruptly, generously or selfishly, it hardly matters in the end because I will find a way to turn a lifelong journey into a generic newspaper advertisement.

            Now that I have painted a dismal illustration of my pesimistic demeanor, I understand that it might be difficult to comprehend how Cass could have found my disdain for life to be charming or even bearable. Noting that a person who is drawn to such a morbid personality could not be as well adjusted as she has led herself to believe, my involvement in her life was merely a result of a tragic situation and would not have existed without her temporary absence of a lust for life. When I had been given the assignment to cover a last minute submission, I apathetically glossed over the tombstone details of Max Sinclair, not paying any special attention to his lost fight against some sort of aggressive cancer or to the fact that he left behind a daughter. At that point, Cass Sinclair was just an arbitrary name; not yet carrying the tarnished memories and resentment it now has.

            I specifically remember had completed the entire five hundred word memoriam in seven minutes as I had been running close to the five o’clock evening deadline. Disregarding the fact sheet that came along with the article order and confirmation of payment, I instead opted to let my underutilized creative talents shine by fabricating a story involving Cass’ father in an emotionally exploitive, however fictional, tale of his international disaster relief work post-university. It was undoubtedly a bold move, one that could have compromised my integrity as a pandering journalist, but I didn’t give it a second thought since my level of accountability was relatively low due to the pseudonym I had given myself upon accepting the position. For all intents and purposes, Ryan Steele would have had to take the fall for my embelishments and would feel the justifiable wrath from the Sinclair family and Harrowing Herald legal department alike.

            What had felt like a fortunate coincidence at the time- only now to remember it as the settlement of my long deserved karmic debt- my disrepectful literary improvisation was viewed by the mournful daughter as reality. Having no other immediate relative or family friends to disprove my fictional story of her father’s philanthropy, her wistfully suggestible mind chose to embrace the lie and reach out to Ryan Steele to show appreciation for his kind, beautifully crafted words. When her phone call had been transferred to my desk from my editor’s office line, I figured my short-lived career as a casualty commentator had come to a grinding halt. To my surprise, the voice I heard on the line did not portray a raw resentment of my actions, but a tearful sense of gratitude. Following her narcissitic rant detailing her loss to a perfect stranger, Cass confidently offered to buy me dinner to express her appreciation. This was the first of many instances when her subtle condescension and insincere generosity ended in her receiving a free meal.

            It is quite remarkable how one’s mind can aimlessly wander into the dangerous depths of the subconscious equivalent of a hostile ocean, flooding the mind until it suffocates from unwanted memories. Since Cass had taken her tacky, wall-mounted digital clock with her before leaving, I couldn’t determine how long I had been laying on the broken closet door, reminiscing about occassions when I had ignored my dependable intuition and followed my illogcial heart into treacherous predicaments. However much time had passed, it had been long enough to seize my back, preventing me from standing upright without causing an enormous amount of pain to my pinched nerves. Looking around the claustrophic enclosure in hopes of locating a forgotten personal response service aparatus, the closet offered few resources. Using my only functional arm, I rumaged through the pile of bent metal clothes hangers that had been mangled on impact. Unsure as to what I was looking for or why I continued to introduce my hand to a painful mountain of sharp steel, I uncovered what could only be referred to as my only salvation and source of consolation in that dire time.

            Grateful that my unbearable presence had made Cass leave in such a rush, forcing her to mindlessly collect her top of the line Down winter coats without first checking the pockets. Fortunately, she had forgotten to double check the closet floor for her medicine. Being quite charcteristic of Cass, her habit of leaving her possessions behind was prevalent every time we would check out of a hotel. Without fail, she would forget to pack her make-up or hair straightener and wouldn’t even call the hotel to see if it had been stolen by a housekeeper- truly indicative of her disregard for the value of expensive trivialities. Despite those times I was outraged by her carelessness, I was able to benefit from her act of absent mindedness as I helped myself to her pill bottle filled to the brim with pre-rolled medical marijuana joints.

            Having been no stranger to the off-label use of marijuana, I had no aversion to the psychotropic plant. Although my functional social conscious had never allowed me to deceive a doctor into believing that I would be a suitable candidate for the prescription like my former companion- who deceptively told her doctor that she had developed a difficulty in falling asleep at night following the death of her father- I protected my ethics by illegally acquiring the drug outside dispensaries. Initially I had begun smoking marijuana as a way to facilitate my writing the day I got hired at The Harrowing Herald as a way to combat my inefficient compulsions. Not to say that it helped ring out my creative juices onto a concisely formatted page, but it did allow me to overcome my irrational need to save a document at least five times before starting a new line as a safe guard against dreaded computer crashes. In addition, it helped me focus on what I was writing rather than being fixated on the non-existent dirt on my hands or the disturbing sensation of my ruffled jeans rubbing in between the crevasse of my backside.

            Since I had grown impatient with the day, having inflicted a great deal of pain onto my body, I desired to surround myself with a reality in which a sober mind just could not offer. I retrieved one substantial joint from the pill bottle, depleting Cass’ stash by a tenth- drawing the conclusion from the prescription label that each joint contained a gram of the miracle weed. Summoning strength to my upper extremities, I fumbled into my pockets to find a match or a lighter to quickly ignite the tightly rolled pot as its physical and mental healing properties now served an urgent purpose. As I searched for anything that was capable of creating even the dimmest spark, I feared that my awful day was about to continue with unfortunate consistency. Running out of available resources, I snatched two broken pieces of metal coat hangers and began rubbing them together with a furious dedication, unrealistically assuming that my feeble arms could create enough friction to ignite a flame- the only friction I had created was between my the cellulite on my biceps and the fatty tissue on my pectorals, leading to a level of discomfort my poorly maintained physique experienced entirely way too often.

            I had finally grown tired of the excessive waste of energy used to light my contraband and decided to consume it in a manner that came naturally, by ingesting it. I held it close to my face, trying to capture the gleam of light from within the dark, enclosed closet space and carefully began to tear at the glued seam. As the thin paper ripped down from the cardboard filter, I could see a green shimmer of hope compacted in a delightful row. I was even undeterred by Cass’ disgusting need to add tobacco to the otherwise perfect substance- her tampering was downright disrespectful to the cultivator, like adding a sweetened carbonated beverage to a vintage French wine made from delectable grapes or skim milk to a bold Colombian coffee brewed with sun ripened beans. Once the king sized rolling paper was torn right down the middle, I pressed the paper against my salivating bottom lip until it stuck and scooped its entire contents into my mouth as if I were enjoying a shucked oyster.

            Displeased by the delayed gratification that comes with ingesting marijuana, I wished I could have felt the immediate effects felt by smoking the drug, but remained positive that I would eventually feel its calming influence. Without any other option, I waited impatiently for the THC to kick in, frustrated by the unnerving lack of distraction within my dull closet. Incredibly bored and fed up with the lack lustre reality that surrounded me, I reached my strained arm into my uncomfortably tight designer jeans that Cass had bought for me in a blatantly rude attempt to body shame my oversized figure. I pulled out my cell phone to browze my digital photo album. Looking toward a sure fire way to kill a few minutes before the marijuana provided some relief from my mental exhaustion and physical agony, I very much enjoyed going through my pictures, deleting those I did not care to remember anymore. The mass deleting of photos involving Cass or a time or place that reminded me of her was satisfying- much more than any couples or grief counsellor could offer post breakup.

            I took ample time to determine whether each photo was worthy of remaining in my album or getting deleted, simultaneously wiped from my memory. Granted they were just digital representations of various people and places with no perceived value, I embraced the power I felt upon determining their worthiness- like a Roman Emperor deciding the fate of a beaten gladiator. The first picture I stumbled on didn’t even deserve consideration as it was a ridiculous selfie Cass had taken the night prior. Actually, that picture had instigated her decision to leave as quickly as she did. Knowing fully well that I detested the narcissistic epidemic that consists of selfies, Cass followed through with her ill-advised action by taking my phone- without my consent I might add- to drive me into a frenzy of judgment. To make matters worse, she even had the gall to pose herself with very unflattering duck lips, as if she was a fifteen year old girl starved for attention.

Once I saw the abomination, I justifiably lost my temper, reacting with a heightened level of passive aggression that I didn’t even know I could reach. She tried to calm me down by saying that she was just trying to flirt and have a little bit of fun, which exacerbated my already irritated demeanor. This comment led me to say without so much as a thought: “I wouldn’t be so unethical as to flirt with a child.” Apparently this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back- the camel’s back being her ability to withstand my snarky comments on a nightly basis. Admittedly I could have revised my impromptu retort before saying something that might be inferred as insensitive, given the knowledge I had concerning her unsavory childhood, however I cannot change the past and it would be an act in futility to dwell on a single innocent phrase uttered in the heat of a post-selfie moment.

It was safe to say that I would never again need to see that picture or be reminded of how an offhanded remark could result in the catacylsmic ending of my first and only relationship. After deleting the duck lipped catastrophe, I swiped through the rest of my pictures with little conviction, now feeling an absence of power following the experience of a guilt-riddled momento. Stricken with an unpleasant sense of remorse for my inconsiderate words, I wondered if Cass had reason enough to leave when she did. Since empathy had usually been outweighed by my overwhelming self-awareness, I typically did not have the ability to venture outside of my own bubble in an attempt to understand the hurt feelings of others. Even when I felt the wrath of parental guilt, the majority of my shame came from feeling inferior, not from the pain I may have caused someone else. As my eyes seemed to be burning at a feverishly high temperature, I feared I might succumb to my empathetic discovery, solidifying my guilt with tears. Realizing that my body had taken control and I was unable to take the reins of a physiological reaction, I continued to lay in despair, waiting for the shameful tears to run down my face. I waited upwards of thirty seconds but the tears never came. I then realized my eyes did not burn as a result of pooling tears, but due to the cannabis that had finally been digested.

Feeling the familiar lethargic stupor course through my body like a paralyzing elixir, my body might as well have been catatonic- feeling only the cold numbness in my toes transition up through my warm, tingling thighs, then travelling all the way to my scalding eye sockets. Although the intense superficical sensations demanded my attention, my focus was pulled to my racing heart, which was beating at a pace never before felt. Although marijuana typically increased my pulse to dramatically rapid rhythm, I feared that I was having an adverse cardiac reaction to the substance. Trying to plan an emergency route to seek medical attention, I worried that my numb legs could not carry me long enough to reach the distant hospital. Granted I had my cell phone and could have effortlessly called an ambulance if cicrumstances called for it, the pragmatic region of my brain had quickly become impaired, preventing me from using rationale to diffuse a crisis. If my brain had been fully functional at the time, I would have had the adequate mental faculties to realize I had ingested quite a bit of tobacco with the marijuana, overloading my nervous system with a foreign stimulant.

Now wishing I had the clarity to calmly talk myself through the realistically non-life-threatening ailment, I was nonetheless at the mercy of the mind altering drug and continued to fear its perceived ability to cause cardiac arrest. Therefore, as both my body and mind fell into a captive state, ruled with an iron fist by the unforgiving cannabinoid/nicotine cocktail, I closed my eyes and tried to ride the wave of overpowering intoxication. As I tried to ease my worrisome mind, I was perplexed as to how addicts could subject their bodies to the polar intensities of opiates and sythetic stimulants. Experiencing the light jog equivalent of drug use, I could not imagine running a personally taxing, veritable marathon of drug abuse. While I tried to wrap my mind around the imperceptible desire to experiment with stronger narcotics, my body responded to the comparatively insignificant levels of intoxication by surpassing the agitation, thereby allowing me to experience the euphoric effects of the marijuana.

Finally feeling the positive effects of the drug, I was able to lie blissfully on the floor with half of my body in the closet without regard for how ridiculous I might have looked. Reducing my anxiety, my obssessive mind was temporarily impeached from its dictatorial tyranny, being replaced by a much more passive and democratic leader. Satisfied with my inebriated brain, I took advantage of its minimal interference, acting like an aloof supervisor, and took the time to appreciate my current circumstances. First, I rested my hands on my protruding stomach and enjoyed the shape it formed underneath my baggy sweater. It was a rarity in my day-to-day life to reach a level of satisfaction in regards to my undesirable body type, but under the flattering light of marijuana I was able to disregard both the social and internal influences that usually forced me to look at myself with disgust.

Lost in a consciousness overgrown with intrusive thoughts, I was coerced into taking a stroll through the intoxicated recesses of a fleeting mind. I laid on the floor and wondered if I never got up, would anybody realize that I had lost the will to live. Since Cass had recently left and my only living relative was an estranged father- who might as well have died alongside my mother all those years ago- I literally had no one to keep tabs on my mental health (other than my editor, who would not invest himself on a personal level unless I was unable to produce enough drivel to meet his weekly deadlines and would still probably much rather fire me than engage in a heartfelt conversation). Realizing that other than my father, the universe and the people who inhabitate it, would not so much as release a sigh of discontent if I were to give up all together. It was at that point my stoned mind flooded with paranoia as I was instantly instilled with faith regarding coincidence- not as a concept, but as an authentic phenomenon.

I wrongfully believed that my vision had been as greatly impaired as the rest of my body, leading me to hallucinate both the vibration and flashing red light from the cell phone in my hand. I was not stunned by the fact that I had received a phone call- as I was regularly contacted by debt collectors and solicitors- but the fact that the incoming phone number had belonged to none other than my father. Before answering, I became overwhelmingly aware of my incapacitated state and feared that I would be unable to fake a sober tone of voice. Reaching deep down into my limited repertoire of vocal inflections, I tried to remember what my voice sounded like before I ingested the tobacco laced marijuana. From what I could vaguely recollect, I was burdened with quite the monotonous voice, unable to portray appropriate emotions for any given situation, which is why I often come across as apathetic or sarcastic. Although I do in fact identify as a facetiously cold individual, I wish I wasn’t so transparent upon opening my mouth. Startled by the lengthy amount of time I had taken to ruminate about something as trivial as my voice when I had wasted what seemed like the better part of a day instead of answering a call from my father, who had thus far stayed true to his word by vowing never to speak to me again once my mother’s casket hit the bedrock floor of her cemetary plot.

Unable to summon the theatrical energy to disguise my noticeably intoxicated voice, I spontaneously swiped my phone to accept the call. Mixed with varying emotions from resentment to excitment, I did not know how I would react to my father’s voice. I had even forgotten what he sounded like, but seemed to remember that he may have passed down my inability to express enthusiasm. Bracing myself for the unnerving unexpected as my heart raced even faster than before, causing an alarming amount of perspiration to moisten my unnecessarily warm sweater, I had nothing to fear when the voice of a young woman responded to my quivering voice.

Instead of hearing my father’s abrasively holier-than-thou voice, I heard a soft spoken woman, who must have been no older than myself. She initiated the conversation after the absence of a response was indicative of confusion on my end. First validating my identity, she asked if I was in fact who she had been trying to reach, to which I confirmed with a barely audible grunt on account of the fact that incongruencies had worsened my intoxicated state, leaving me speechless. Trying to instill some momentum in our slow moving conversation, the voice continued by condollingly stating that she was calling on behalf of my father’s estate and regretted to me inform me that he had passed away early that morning.

Apparently, as I was grappling with my fragile coffee press, feeling as though my world had ended prematurely, my father’s existence had come to an unexpected halt when he was stricken with a fatal blood clot to his brain. Unable to comprehend the gravity of what this stranger was attempting to explain to me, I became distraught as I was also stricken with a distressing symptom: reality. It seemed as though the news of my father’s death had somehow made the effects of the marijuana to dissepate instantaneously, which made the experience all too real. Tempted to reach into Cass’ pill bottle to steal one of the nine remaining joints, I dreaded the time delay of the effects and assumed that by the time the substance kicked in, I would have already had enough time to dwell on the guilt of allowing my father to die alone.

Instead of ingesting more marijuana, I chose to approach the baffling news logically. Rationalizing that he was in fact my father and I was merely his dependent, it would have been in his best interest to keep close ties with his only living relative if he found the idea of having a loved one at the time of his unscheduled death to be a comforting one. I somehow found solace in hypothesizing that he would have contacted me if he new that the end of his life was imminent, for the simple reason to bury the hatchet, thereby allowing me to continue with my own life guilt-free. As I wrapped up my delusional, yet comforting thought, it occurred to me that my father would have never given me any such thing- he would have rathered given me the life-long gift of remorse. He had already given me a similar gift by eponymously naming me, which haunts me intermittently as I sometimes feel more relatable to his insanity every time I introduce myself just as he would. As the woman shared the debatably tragic news, I slipped in and out of focus, sharing my attention with the many other thoughts and memories that entered into my irrationally grieving mind. Amongst the white noise seeping through the receiver of my cell phone, I caught only the time and place of my father’s funeral, which would be held the following day at the local cemetary where our family plot was located.

Unable to be cordial enough to the woman whose job was very similar to my own, yet more sincere and straight forward, I simply ended the conversation without even a clue as to whether I would be attending the funeral or not. Since I did not have any plans with Cass the following day, my schedule had unfortunately been left wide open without the slightest excuse to refuse the invitation. At least attending a funeral would be a free outing, unless I was invited to the ceremony for the sheer reason that I was expected to cover the costly funeral expenses. Knowing my father, he would have had little regard for my tightly balanced budget by writing in his will that he could not be buried without a renowed priest, talented tabernacle choir, or unnecessarily lavish crucifix to be fastened around his cold neck as an extravagent statement of faith to his long since worshipped saviour.

Coping with the contradictory feelings of losing a loved one and a resented one, it occurred to me that the two balanced each other out. Favoring balance in life- never satisfied with particularly exciting days as well as morose ones- I was quite content with the progression of events. If news of my father's death did not reach me by day's end, I would have thought that my life would be impeded by Cass' departure, but with this tidbit of information, I assume I will be able to tackle another dreaded week ahead of me without my coffee to help me through. Not at all a bad or unproductive way to spend a Sunday alone.