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"Did Derek leave?" I silently closed the door.
"Why did you leave?"
"You didn't say good bye."
"... But why didn't you tell me you were leaving.. I would have walked you out.."
"I know you don't like Katie, but I thought you were better than that. Maybe I'll see you at Christmas."
"I hope so," I softly replied.
I watched her drive off, not bothering to wipe off the tears that trickled down my face, wishing.
"What are you going to college for, Derek? I was thinking about it the other day and couldn't figure it out," Drew asked as he slammed down another brick. Goddamn, I'm tired of bricks.
I stammered. What answer could I give? Did I want to confess the deep inadequacy I feel weekly in a suffocating religion that makes me questions the validity of my very existence? Tell them that I could no longer bear the pressure and fled to enroll in a community college rather than suffer it any longer though I fear it shall not offer the great respite I crave? These were men I would tolerate for only a week longer, with varying degrees of tolerance. Occasionally the discussions ventured away from the usual homosexual accusations and innuendo so far to reach into the realms of theology. I hate those. Curtis's mother is a Jehovah's Witness. He says it's a cult. I don't want to talk about mine. I tell them it only specifies hot drinks; it is old. They are befuddled. I try to let it blow over.
I told them what has become my standard answer: I don't know what I want to do with my life and see no point in spending more money than necessary until such time. They seem satisfied. They don't ask questions about missionary ambitions. I am thankful.
Sometimes I want to go. It would be a great experience. A new language, exotic culture. Stuff like that. But how can I serve a church whose tenets, if followed, would have prevented my existence? It's been wracking my brain for sometime now: how can both freewill and fate coexist? One must take precedence! It just doesn't make sense. I can't figure it out. Either my existence is folly, or fornication was preordained. It's late; I'm not sure what I'm saying. I'm conflicted. I seem to be a complicated individual.
I sent a text to a friend who is going somewhere in life. The text was simple: What do you want to be when you grow up?
The answer was simple: Happy.
This week I've done three things: stack bricks, watch The Office, and avoided cleaning the kitchen. I only have one week left. I'm exhausted. It seems like forever.
There's a man on Ellen, in the next room, talking about ADHD. "This is about you," Amanda tells Ethan. He wants her to change the channel back to OPB. "This is about you; you have ADHD." An amateur's diagnosis. Ethan is confused.
"What's that? Is it a disease? Is it bad? Is it bad?"
"Sometimes it is," my sister replies.
It seems to happen on a weekly basis. Perhaps in part to the realization that the weekend is concluding and another unfortunate work week is about to begin. Or perhaps to the lurking guilt that doing anything on Sunday seems reluctant to relinquish. My family is watching some bastard American Idol presentation. Abhorrent! Revelation: I used to be funnier. I imagine that extends into these bloggerings. Should I search for a place that might accommodate whale watching planerings. Revelation I used to write a lot better. I'll probably just end up spending the whole day cleaning the kitchen on my day off instead. Abhorrent!
Revelation: Jerky is delicious.Bacon is delicious. Where can I find a combination of the two?
