My Face (Prologue Pt. 1)

I have come to this state of intrinsic euphoria this Wednesday evening, by one means and one alone. That is that I took the time out of my “should-be” busy schedule to walk a half-mile there and back to the gas station, where at I purchased a bottle of Nesquick chocolate milk. Not that cheap imitation stuff they pass off as chocolate water, I find that even Hershey’s chocolate doesn’t do the trick. By imitation I mean the brand of milk mixed with chocolate substitute that no one has ever heard of, like T.G Lee, or...actually I can’t seem to recall any other brand of chocolate milk. Suffice to say that nothing but the bottle with the stupid brown rabbit on the front would do the trick for me. I must be one of the hundreds of millions of people on this planet who enjoy a good, ice cold bottle of chocolate milk. However, unlike the masses who consume this same cow byproduct that I do, I feel a very special connection to it. Chocolate milk does for me, what a cigarette after a heated argument, or a case of beer after a long hard days work does for me. I suppose I could make it from scratch at home, but then I have to worry whether or not I’ve got enough chocolate syrup in the glass to have attained the correct amount of “chocolatyness”.

No, the bottle has plenty, aimed at perfection, in my case specific. When I buy a bottle, it’s always the right amount, just sweet enough, just heavy enough to put me to sleep in the same manner as a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Unfortunately, for me, I’m so fickle when it comes to this beverage, that if it gets just the slightest bit warm while I’m still drinking it, I’ll have to throw the rest away. Chocolate milk is only good when it’s cold, like beer.

I beg your pardon, however, as not only chocolate milk makes me feel the way I do now. I have, in fact, a top five, if you will. Chocolate milk, drinking with my friends, smoking huca, playing hackey-sac, with sex dragging up a distant fifth. It’s still up there, so my wife has nothing to lament. I fear, however, that the last thing I can ever gain is that one bit of true euphoric pleasure from all of these things combined, because, you can’t very well do all of these things at once. Which would be strange. In short, it can be interpreted from these few short paragraphs that I’m a relatively simple person, young man, or young adult, rather. Imagine if you will, a pomegranate...no...well, yes actually. A pomegranate. Seemingly simple enough on the outside, yet notoriously complex on the inside. It’s innards intertwined with small inner pouches of sweet tasty seeds that make up the flavor that is pomegranate.

That would be me, to a “tee” if you please...one sugar, two creams, thank you. No, in truth I am in whole just a bunch of seeds bundled together in this big sack of flesh that make up the person I am. For the sake of being on the same page, let’s assume that this sack is my consciousness, and the “seeds” represent my thoughts, and ideas.

I’m in no way trying to claim that I’m so different and unique from every other man on the planet. On the contrary, I’m quite alike many of them, as far as carnal instincts go, and general needs, emotional and physical. If I had to say I was different, I’d only mention that...I have a problem identifying a large quantity of seeds in my sack, no pun intended. No, by this I mean that, I’m quite aware of the many ideas I have inside of my head, and I’m quite capable of solving the most complex mathematical problems, or performing the most intellectually demanding tasks, it’s just that, from time to time, I’ll forget what exactly it is I’m doing, why I’m doing it, or even how I’m supposed to do these things in the first place. For example, I’ve been in four separate year long keyboarding classes, to learn to type faster and more accurate on a computer, and STILL, I can only type with both my index and middle fingers. My father once commented that if he ever saw a chicken typing, the image would be most similar to a motion film of my fingers striking the keyboard.

Another example might be something akin to this, if you so choose to stray from the scenario I’ve laid out for you. I’m a person who lives in the present, I do not dwell on the past (rarely do I ever mention it, actually), nor do I look towards the future. Many might think this type of behavior to be reckless. According to the previous generation, that is the definition of a reckless person. One who does not consider the consequences of his actions before performing them. In other words, not paying attention to what the future MIGHT bring. I don’t have time to worry about the “what-ifs” in life. Here’s how I look at it though. If I spend too much time dwelling on the past, or looking toward the future, I’ll miss the present (Which is funny, considering the present doesn’t really exist but that’s a story for another time). So you ask, why can’t I focus on each with an equal amount of attention, there in lies the question indeed.

Why not? Well, I could claim, like so many others to have Attention Deficit disorder, but that would be silly. I don’t really want to get onto this subject, but claiming to have this disorder is like jumping on the world-class “Excuse Bandwagon”.



(To be continued)