I figure this question may come up now and then, in between the question of "What's the meaning of life?" and "Where the hell is the remote?", so I might as well attempt to answer it now and then.
First off, trust me, your guess is as good as mine.
I don't see myself living the normal life, not yet anyway. College? I'm sorry, but something about it, it just doesn't fit. Maybe some other day. A dead-end job? No rhetoric necessary.
I've got things to prove to myself, I suppose. That, and there is an incredible sense of duty which I will probably babble about some other day, when I'm really really drunk and can't find a phone to fuck with people with......with. Plus there's this whole "My Calling" kind of thing. Just seems like the thing I'm supposed to do. It always has.
Another surreal moment for me today, as I was babbling on the phone to a friend (most likely making as much sense as a peso [cents? peso? please laugh]), I paced around my basement living room, fiddle-fucking with all sorts of inanimate objects that most English speaking people would call "decorations" or some weird French word like that. It soon came to be that I had chosen to handle several pictures that were placed on top of the wood house thing that holds your TV and all your shit (entertainment center). As I scanned these pictures of we, the offspring of my parents, all at young dumb and ugly ages much like we still are, one in particular caught my 'football shaped' eye.
The picture had me, the incredibly attractive narrator of this waste of cyberspace, standing alongside his good homedog and cousin, who hath been dubbed Brandon by his parental units. The two of us were no more than six years old, both playing with toy guns (because our moms were so mean, they wouldn't buy us Barbies). Brandon was wearing woodland camo pajamas and a helmet our uncle brought back from Desert Storm. I was wearing olive drab khakis (olive drab = the color of the olives that have that evil orange shit in the middle, the greenish olives) and an olive drab T-shirt, along with my helmet that the said uncle had retrieved from the said military operation. When one who is lucky enough to find this picture inspects my shirt a little closer, they will find, to their supreme amazement, A PARATROOPER on the shirt.
I noticed this after I came home from the recruiter's place of business. I'd completely forgotten about that shirt, and that picture. Seeing it, well, it was a "trip". Follow the white rabbit? Should we? What would BUDDHA do? Yeah, that's what I thought. Hold the pin, I want to save this one.
I'm tired, and right now, I don't like you because you probably expect more mindless babble, and I'm afraid your implied needs are superceded by my laziness. So I'm going to crawl into my bed and lay there for the next 14 hours, and only an act of Congress will be able to force me to move. One of these days, I'll add more to this whole "Why, Ryan, Why? Say it aint so!" subject. Again, likely with alcohol. Just no low crawling.