This is a True Story that is written as it happens.
Obviously, the names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.
I sat there in my student house garage with a recently used bong on the table and my phone at hand. “Another disengaged millennian,” I wrote.
I wanted to write something impactful. I’m a writer I tell people, and I go to school for it so I feel like I’m supposed to just shit out profound words anytime I get a chance right? We all know that’s not how it works.
I had written a piece of poetry that felt like a good reflection of what I believed in. Cents it was called and it was about the play on the sound of sense and cents which let me send messages from my manifesto as I call it.
I have big ideas you see and for a lot of my life I debated making a career in politics but ultimately I felt politics were fake and I ultimately dislike fake interactions.
“I suppose they are inevitable,” I wrote. It kinda rhymed. I kinda like rhyming and playing with words, so I play as much as I can when I write poetry. I counted out the syllables. Mi-lle-nni-al, four. In-ev-it-ab-le? Wait able sounds like one when you say it. Is it one? A quick search would give my answer and I learn I’m way off, some writer right?. In-ev-i-ta-ble five syllables.
Could the Iambic pentameter work? That’s Shakespearean for ‘Does the line’s syllable count match’. I wouldn’t know find out then, as I was about to be distracted by the sound of faint rap music. It was Eminem and I know almost every Eminem song and consider myself to be an expert,t but I couldn’t remember the name for some reason. I knew the beat well, however, so I bobbed my head accordingly.
I didn’t look up when Brody walked in. Brody wasn’t a roommate, he didn’t pay to live here, and he actually lived with his parent’s several blocks down the road, but Brody was always here and I didn’t complain as I liked his company. He kept his bong, which was a beautifully crafted Green Hoss we used for “green” bowls here so there he made me a pretty happy person.
Just for context: Green bowls are just smoking pot of a bong. A Popper is when you smoke tobacco and pot in the same bowl, the bowl being the small glass bowl-shaped piece where you load your weed. You can smoke a popper any way you want. You can put the tobacco first and then the weed as I do, you can layer it in what we Oakvillians call a Big Mac after McDonald’s cheeseburger since it is layered as such, and you can layer weed first and Tobacco second a method that I just don’t like.
Brody didn’t hit poppers, but he used to. His piece was for nice clean green bowls which kept a bong from becoming filthy from tobacco use. Don’t get me wrong, weed bongs can get bad, but nothing is quite as bad as a popper bong. Poppers leave a gag causing aftertaste that most pot smokers can notice when they smoke the bong. Brody quit smoking poppers and recently cigarettes as well so I was actually in admiration of him.
Brody saw me bobbing my head and jamming to the familiar beat and called out:
“AYYY” all energetic like.
I laughed and kept bobbing my head without making eye contact I was staring at the page. When I finally turned my head to face him he was smiling a genuine happy-go-lucky kinda smile.
“What’s good?” He said to me as my eyes returned to my mainly white screen.
I’m really quite a boring person to socialize with. I don’t say much unless I really like what we’re talking about. Normal small-talk just doesn’t cut it for me but for the guys I see all the time, I do try, mainly out of respect.
“Not much man, just trying to think of something,” I immediately changed the topic to something that intrigued me that wasn’t me babbling on about my writing. “What Eminem song is that? It’s a Dre beat right, something like recovery album?”
“Almost Famous.” He said as he danced with the song. His dance was infectious and I started kinda grooving too.
I stared back at my screen. The blue line where my type had ended flashed repeatedly.
“I shoulda known that,” I said stopping my groove.
Sometime later many other common house people including some roommates walked in. I think it was, Anakin who wasn’t a housemate but instead one of the Den-mothers for our house, Terry who was Brody’s girlfriend, as well as Brick and Ethan who are both housemates. We all exchanged greetings and sat in some of the many seats available in the garage. We had two old blanketed couches that could seat three and four people, a yellow chest that sat two, and two single chairs, one Muskoka and the other an office chair that spun around and had wheels.
I don’t remember who sat where, but I remember I was sitting in the corner. Unfortunately, it was the wrong corner, the one that connected the two couches where everyone sat. Soon it became a chaotic series of conversations that overlapped each other.
I stared at the blinking blue line where my type ended for a majority of the conversation until I heard the word “Strike”. My eye remained on the screen but I was listening intently.
Our school, the one that connected all of us ultimately, as well as all other colleges in Ontario, was on strike. At that point, we had all been on a five-week “break” that was going into its sixth.
No one thought it would last this long. The semester was in danger of being lost if not lost already and many of us were put in weird situations. Co-op students have jobs lined up in the summer and many are concerned about their qualifications. It was essentially putting everyone in stasis
This affected me in a weird way too. I had been out of high-school for three years at that point and dropped out of three different programs. each lasting only a semester. The truth is, I don’t know what I wanna do. The other half of the time out of school I spent hating my life as a waiter.
Remember how I said I hate fake-interactions? Yeah, I do, but it makes money. I tell myself the hours are good and so is the money but after doing it for now over two years, I’ve begun to turn into something a younger me would have never allowed. A sell-out. I still work as a waiter and to be frank, I’m still in debt. I’m not even making enough money to clear it. I’ve been working more since then but I don’t work every day. I have an existential crisis every time I get ready for work and barely tolerate my radical behavior three times a week. The other four I spend doing what I call leisure which I consider writing, gaming, learning and very rarely cooking.
The young me was an interesting kid, he and I still share the big dreams that we believed in but now, I don’t think I can do what he thought I could. The kid was so ambitious, and he loved Batman, oh god did he idolize Batman. You don’t understand, he wanted me to be him. The kid was obsessed with heroes. Genuinely obsessed. He wanted to be one, one that was like Batman. He wanted to channel all the rage in his soul and use it to change the world to be a better place. He wanted to do those violent things for people. He wanted to be a martyr of sorts without even knowing what martyr meant.
Martyr: a person who sacrifices something of great value and especially life itself for the sake of principle
The Dark Knight Trilogy didn’t help. God, they were so good. Hard to believe more people didn’t believe the way that kid did. I still think it’s pretty damn inspiring. Selflessness. Damn haha.
How Naive we are as children, yet so hopeful and optimistic.
Thank you for your time,