The Rules

I roll out of bed this morning a little later than usual, having hit the snooze alarm in my sleep (yet again) in order to buy myself another hour under the covers. I can walk to work in about twenty minutes. I’m not worried.

Molly, who always does her best to ensure that I’m up on time, sends me one last text message as I get my day started.

”I love you Avery. Good luck.”

I’m going to need a better phone. I can’t lock every single one of her messages. With the day starting on a high note, I pull myself out of bed and ask myself, why am I so pissed off lately?

I’ve been in a real funk lately. I was able to pick up an XBox 360, and even the rampaging adventures of Ryu Hayabusa (who’s either an uber-ninja or a serial killer, depending on which side of the blade you’re on) has done little to bring me out of it. Aesthetically obliterating lives does little to alleviate my mood—although I’m loving it all the same.

I hate playing by the rules. There’s almost no payoff. The older I get, the more I realize that my father was right. The rules are set up to make you fail.

I remember running into my old boss while I was out at lunch. I spoke to be polite. He told me I’d get my job back. He volunteered this information. It never happened. There may have been circumstances I was unaware of, but since he never let me in on what those circumstances might have been, from my point of view, it looks like a lie. A lie that was totally unnecessary.

I draft an evacuation plan for the residents of the Towers. The plan is rejected, and I receive a cryptic, chilling handwritten note as to why; there is no evacuation plan in the Towers for a reason.

I go straight and narrow and cops still mess with me. When I call for help (the one and only time I’ve ever called JCPD) they advise me to avoid the situation I called them about. The quote was you might not want to do rounds on that floor for awhile. He’s really pissed off.

I walk ten miles through this city in hopes of finding a job, nothing pans out. When I finally land a job, it turns out the company overhired by thirty people. Some are immediately delayed until May. Others, myself included, have our fate decided by a performance on a written exam. If two people do equally well on this exam, then the alphabet will decide. Those with a last name closer to ‘A’ get to start Monday. The rest of us are out in the cold.

Molly is one of a few people who knows me intimately. She says I’m apathetic, and she’s probably right. Dealing with hustlers, liars, (and most recently pedophiles) will do that to you. I’ve also come to realize the damning effect of having the whole world tell you’re worse than nothing. As a kid, it was a no-win situation. I did what someone wanted and someone else got pissed off. I did what I wanted and everyone got pissed off.

Thus was born the knowledge, fuck what everyone else thinks. If I’m going to be hated, I’m going to be hated for doing something I want to do.

I take strength from being the hated one. Even when I play Madden, I play as the away team. I’m coming into your house, I’m going to play by your rules, and as your friends cheer on my destruction, I’m going to beat the dog shit out of you. Even worse, I’m going to humiliate you in the process.

My experience teaches that most people will do whatever is necessary to achieve their goal, no matter who gets harmed in the process. A refusal to inflict injury on someone makes you weak. Sometimes, I hate what I became in order to prove to the world that I was ‘tough’. I hate it even more that it was only then I was accepted. I inflicted permanent injuries and this makes me cool?!

I laid Busterwolf to rest, but the guilt is still there. I did a lot of things to people I can’t take back. I’m trying to find a way to let this go.

I’m also trying to restore my faith in people. I believe in God because He’s come through. People tend to fall unapologetically short.

I cannot stand people who bitch and moan about how the world has screwed them and when presented with opportunity, they ignore them. I don’t understand people who are incarcerated for low-level shit spend all day talking about getting out and doing the exact same thing that got them locked up in the first place. I don’t get people who feel a need to defend their beliefs by tearing down someone else’s. Why is this encouraged?

I have this theory that allows me to get along with most people. As long as you respect that fact that you’re probably not going to change my mind, I’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I may even give it a shot. I feel that as long as you’re not hurting anyone, people should be free to openly believe what they want. Seriously, who gives a flying fuck what if the person next to you is gay, Wiccan, Jewish, Republican, or screws pigs in their spare time? Is it their preference that pisses you off, or is it the fact that they’re brave enough enough to live their lives openly?

Why am I the only one who seems to think this?!

Why are the rules set up to protect those who encourage backwards ways of thinking? Why are those who dare to stand up to this persecuted, tortured, outcast, or martyred?

Maybe the rules need to change.

Think about it.

Thanks for reading.

del.icio.us Tags: Rules,Life,Change,Religion,Sexual Orientation,Incarceration

The Best $20 I Ever Spent

It is a setting fit for new, pimply-faced teenagers and the children eager to reach that stage. For those that may not understand, it may be the worst type of sensory deprivation, but for those that do, we can imagine nothing better.

Our senses are blissfully and endlessly stimulated in this place; a place of electronic madness, poorly-lit hallways lined with cabinets that assault your eyes and ears with a constant barrage of flashing imagery and seemingly random beeps, tinny tunes, and sound effects from worlds being obliterated for lack of one quarter. The smell of day-old cheese sauce and hot dogs that should’ve been thrown out ages ago are unavoidable if you get too close to the front counter, but still resonate in the rear room. And everywhere, there is the barrage of taunts, jeers, friendly insults, and challenges as rivalries are born, settled, and laid to rest. This, my friends, is the arcade.

On this night, I’m eleven years old, and this is my second home. Unfortunately, I have long since lost track of time.

Not that I’m eager to get home, knowing what I’ll face regardless of my time of arrival. Presently, the Mad Gear gang has kidnapped Jessica, the Mayor’s daughter, and my sole priority is saving her. For the first time, I’m nearly at the end of this journey, and I plan to see it through.

I’m so engrossed in the game that I’m completely oblivious to my surroundings, save for what I know to be there.

So when the presence of darkness overshadows me from the rear, my stomach bottoms out through my groin, my throat goes dry, and I wish I could disintegrate into nothingness. It’s the cologne that gives it away, and I wonder if everything will finally be made public. Will he lose his temper in public? Will everyone finally see him for who he is?

Not today.
Today, there is only an uncharacteristically gentle hand in my right jacket pocket. I know the voice as it leans into my right ear, but its warmth is unfamiliar to me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear a stranger was propositioning me. His words are an invitation, not a warning. “Come home when you’re ready.”

I count to ten. When I turn, I’m alone.
I fish a twenty dollar bill out of my jacket pocket. I have no idea what to think—except I’m suddenly hungry.

First, I rescued the Mayor’s daughter.

Then, I took part in defeating Shredder with three other strangers.

I had my traditional meal of two Big Mac’s, Large Fries, and a 20-Piece McNugget set.

I received no blowback when I got home that night.
The rest of the money went to a jacket I have to this day, although I outgrew it long ago. Far and away, that was the best twenty dollars I ever spent.

Or received.

del.icio.us Tags: Arcade,Dad,$20 Childhood