"yo this bitch used to give me and [my four friends] head, and then she'd give us her credit card and tell us to pick up a 6 pack of Heineken and get ourselves food...she actually died 2 years ago. That was the first bitch that ever game me head actually."
For awhile I hated my brother. But on a car ride home from Easter dinner, I was forced to realize that in fact he was a real person and not some statistical cliché that sapped financial independence from my family.
I thought to myself that it was rather hypocritical to be enthralled with the stories of people just like him that I heard on bar stools and in my CD collection and then think he was a lesser person for it. I suppose we all want better for what is ours. I should really find out what happens to all of those people in the long run, but I'll never meet tom waits.
And to what credit was I better than him anyway? Sure his conversations sucked, but he's had the same girlfriend for about 5 years now and I can't say I've done that. And I can't even say i don't want it, so he's got me there.
Everything else I think is either envy or fear. I'm afraid of being financially dependant, so I work my ass off and it gives me mental breakdowns, but he's content grifting through life. Fuck his girlfriend bought him new shoes for apparently no reason. He's probably more mentally healthy than I am. The amazing amount of drugs he takes in is everything anyone I've admired does, so again maybe I'm just envious. I don't have any fear and loathing stories to tell on the barstool or to song on CD's. Maybe that's the envy.
Or maybe some of us are story tellers and some of us are just story makers. Maybe I'm the type to sit and hear the stories, dress them up and present them to an audience. The same audience who told me similar variations two months ago. Maybe in this literary cycle, we all feel less...shunned, awkward and cast out.
Who knows, maybe I'm a storyteller...Thanks, Jarrod.
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