We just turned 3. And in the meantime I’ve apparently turned 20 again.
Older generations look upon ours with scorn. They say we’ve been brought up with the expectation that no matter how little effort we put into life it is our right to become rich and famous by our late 20′s. Which, in my case, is somewhat true.
I’ve never been able to give much thought to my future. When I was a teenager I figured I would die by 25 and so lived life accordingly, giving little or no effort to bettering myself or developing talents and instead indulging my every self-destructive whim. Then when I was in college for film production I couldn’t figure out what on earth I was doing there or what I had in common with any of my peers. I went to some classes, others I skipped entirely. I received a smattering of knowledge in various subjects that I’ve failed to find any applications for in real life thus far.
It wasn’t until I drunkenly slammed my volvo into the back of a parked car ten houses down from my parents’ house in San Jose over winter break that I really started thinking about actions and consequences and the future. After all the minor scrapes with the law I had had in my adolescence I suddenly had an actual criminal record, albeit a rather benign one in the grand scheme of things.
Bicycling to and from school in L.A. at the age of 20 gave me a lot of time to think about what was in store for me next. Most important was the humility I gained from the experience. I no longer lived under the delusion that I was a free-floating rebellious independent thinker who was only in school to buck the system and party. I was in reality a spoiled kid from the suburbs who acted recklessly and without any regard for the people who consistently supported and funded my life. I traded invincibility for introspection, braggadocio for meekness. What was I going to do after graduation? Was I even going to graduate? If I wasn’t the devil-may-care kid I’d thought I’d been then who the fuck was I?
Somehow I pulled it all together and was able to graduate in 4 years plus one summer course. I even received an A on my final film, even in its (still) uncompleted state. The challenge of attending and graduating college that had dominated my life since junior high had been met. Suddenly I needed a job and a car and a place to live. All my wasted hours and unpreparedness that had preceded this moment came rushing in at once and I was totally at a loss of what my purpose was.
Through a friend I took on an office job at a commercial real estate firm where all the employees were young affluent white males that waxed idiotic about their latest gym stats and conquests. I made $10 an hour. I shaved my head and felt like a sellout and a peon. But strangely more like a real person. I started getting in shape and even quit smoking for a while. I was able to afford rent and food and nothing else.
I spent two and a half more years in L.A. working at meaningless office jobs for a pittance, scraping by week after week with no idea how to escape the rut I had dug myself into. That’s when I decided I had to move. As soon as my lease expired in L.A. I packed up a uhaul and moved to San Francisco. I had few friends and no leads on an apartment but I had a job lined up working on photo sets so I had a start. I found a place to move in, and then an even better one. After months and months of long grey days alone in my room I finally made some friends. Then I joined a moped gang. Suddenly I was having a blast. I was making $20 an hour plus tons of overtime, which allowed me to reinvent myself with new styles and furnishings. I was 25 going on 26 and it seemed like the world was opening up to embrace me and I was excited about all the opportunities that lay in store.
Jesus I’m rambling. This is definitely a “skim” article for all of you, I’m sure. I know I personally loathe really long personal diatribes aired on the ‘net. Plus this is supposed to be sad, right? Who cares if I pulled myself miraculously out of aimlessness and despair? Didn’t we all go through the same process after school?
Well, here’s the sad part. I’m 27 now. Years of smoking and drinking under the warm summer sun have started to catch up with me. I’m definitely not a kid anymore. I guess I’m a man, for all that that means. I’m a smoker again. And a drinker. I wake up every day to a body covered in tattoos depicting the highs and lows of my life thus far. There will never be a day when I don’t wake up to these, until I don’t wake up anymore.
Out of pride and anger I resigned from my full-time job with benefits. I was labeled a fool, and rightly so, but the daily misery was taking a toll on me. After years of progress the future once again looks uncertain. But the clock has never stopped ticking, and now I’m finding myself late in the race.
Sad. Sigh. I spend my days trolling the internet, scrounging change for a daily cup of coffee, moving my car three times a day to avoid tickets I can’t afford, smoking through haggard coughs behind the dripping eves of my front porch, and spending what money I do have on frivolous dates and old friend alcohol to keep me sane yet depressed, with company yet alone.
It’s good to be back.
mbw
