Why?

Sometimes you think you know what it’s all about. You wonder what purpose we all, as mortals, have in this life. You have tried, ceaselessly, to understand the business of waking up to the sun’s incessant rays each and every morning, when the light at the end of your tunnel is as dim as it can ever be. You have pondered upon figuring out why some of us, as mere mortals, struggle to make ends meet when others simply identify the amount of hard labor it takes to rent an apartment as nothing more or less than chump change. Without a clear revelation as to why exactly humans must succumb to the brutality that this world obviously harbors, you have continued to push, at a level a notch higher than that of a woman in labor, ever since you walked across that threshold as a graduate and received your high school diploma seven years ago, and you have yet to reap any of the benefits that this country, America The Beautiful, swears to offer.
You’re lying in bed, but not in your own. You just finished eating dinner in the kitchen, but not in your own. You’re listening to that plastic realm of time bolted to the wall as it ticks away, though it is not your own. You remember the last time any of these commodities truly belonged to you, though they were not your own. They belonged to your parents, in the bedroom they gave you, in the house they raised you, all within the life that they worked so hard, or so they believe so, to have blessed you with. You’re parents are full of crap. Your father was a deadbeat, forget the term father, your sperm-donor was a deadbeat. Your mother was a narcissistic, vanity driven, beauty school drop out.
You have recently gone out to seek restorative help in beginning your journey to the land where all your bitching never conquers anything important, most definitely your vitality. All you ever do is bitch about everything and everyone gives you shit for it. You think these people definitely do not know what constipation feels like. If there were careers in bitching then you’d become one of those people whom you spend more than half your time bitching about: those who project their dismaying and unsuccessful lives upon you.

You feel as though you’re headed nowhere down a cold, twist turned, upside down spiral, and you’re headed down relatively fast. You wonder why you are like the way you are, and why you don’t have any friends. You blame your beautiful mother for it all. You think if she had pushed harder, then you wouldn’t have to. If she had married rich, you’d be rich. If she respected herself and refused to be cheated on, you’d have respected yourself the countless times you were cheated on. If she loved you she would realize the difficulties you have as an only child with no monetary support, trying to get a degree with multiple courses in a demanding major upon working 25 or more hours weekly only to steer away from becoming another beauty school dropout like her. You wonder why all this? What does the man in the moon plan to walk away with and why test you, of all people?

You remember high school and how happiness emitted through your pores, the pores on the freshest skin that any junior, freshman, sophomore or senior for that matter, ever had. You remember the joys of coming home in tears, due to being the one and only outcast in a school of over 2,000 beautiful girls and boys, and plopping down upon the only component that made you feel whole and imperative to this world composed of teenage angst, your heavenly comforter evocative of Adam and Eve’s Garden of Eden. You remember the innate knack you had for interior wall designing and how your bedroom walls welcomed all the pin-up eye candy belonging to the Hollywood realm of that time, simplistic serenity never left you frowning. You remember the corkboard that donned stunning pictures of your childhood buddies and high school companions, and you close your eyes in wonder of what happened to them, and if they still think of you.
You are 24 going on 30, and you would give anything to live just another hour in those old school Puma’s you wore that first day of junior high. You would give it all up to see the ones who made your life as special as it ever was, when you were 12. You ponder upon the notion that you will no longer find any friends as worthy as the ones you had back then, and before the hard sweat releases itself from your drained, lifeless eyes, you ask yourself as LaChance’s character did in Stand By Me, Jesus, God in your case, does anyone?
These are the years that you have spent. These are the tears that you have cried. These are the memories that refuse to let you be. These are the recollections of a life that you were forced, by the graces of time and your bickering parents, to say goodbye to quicker than you had the chance to live. There are no more two sentenced phone conversations that begin with Hey Lily, want to come over and play with Barbie, and end with a Yes! No more hearing your parents tell one another that they love each other. No more anything trouble-free, just the unforgiving truths that those responsible for your conception never prepared you for.