As I've been reminded a few times today, it's my 18th birthday. No more angsty existential quandires, no more childish irresponsibility, no more dull perpetual nonsense on a melodramatic epic scale. Haha! You and me both, sister.
But today I thought I'd try something different. I'll tell you a harrowing tale so loosely based in fiction you won't even know a minute fraction is true. Yes, you read right. Here is my life story as it has never been told before...
I was born a poor Austrian mountainman(boy) living in the Rockies due to a mishap in customs. It was all very confusing. My mother was so concerned that I was being born early, she forgot to include postage and when you only weigh 3lbs, 15ounces you can get lost in the mail pretty easily. Nevertheless, Henrietta I was named.
Ah the scarring memories. It didn't occur to me until 6 years later that I was named after a girl. By then I had a firmly ingrained love for dresses and all things pink. My parents were eventually swayed by my daily brutal beatings at the hands of school administrators to have my name altered to the more popular "Dylan", a warping of "Dillon", the man who devised "Dillon's Rule" as a method of dramatically limiting municipal governments. No one got the reference, but that was fine; it was better than Glenda or Gladice the Gregarious Garden Centipede.
Thus christened "Dylan" (and by "christened" I mean to say annointed in the unholy blood of 99 dead virgins and one skank who decided to repent but got lost on the way to the STD clinic) I embarked on my quest to overcome all opposition in all areas of academia. Then I realized I had the brain capacity of a frog in heat; a rather irrate frog, but a frog nonetheless. Thus I had to be content pounding my head against the wall in a futile attempt to recall why, exactly, I had to "remember that bathrooms are for waste, not taste." I should have known that the curtains didn't match the interior; oh what I fool I was in my youth.
I graduated Kindergarten with the Honor of being top in my disability. That disability being lack of amibition and, I suspect, lack of money shoved down a gyrating 50 year old's shinguards at the local roller skating S&M ring. It wasn't a pretty place, but you're all too young to remember it.
My earliest memory was shoving my arm into a blender. The smoothie was worth the immense pain, but I think the reconstructive surgery on my cybornetic replacement was a bit overpriced. It's a good thing I always only sold 90% of my soul because in that way you can never truly lose it all. Well, you can, but the spiritial "lost and found" department is in desperate need of visitors (they work off commission). So I'm fine.
Then I remember numerous punishments including but not limited to doing taxes, reading modern poetry, tangoing with the elderly without their knowledge, and the dreaded pipe organ of DOOM. Oh how I loathed that repetition. "DOOM DOOM DOOM KARL Ra-ra- ra- ROVE." It would have been like a verbatim prediction of my future, if it wasn't completely wrong and misguided.
Speaking of wrong and misguided, this is about the time I first encountered Muhammed. He was getting high in the attic I no longer ever had, and I had the gallbladder to ask him why he bothered shaving. He responded in a trill of supersonic proportions, lacerating my almost perfectly disfigured face.
The next few years were uneventful as all epic wars deciding the fate of existence often are, though I did knit a nifty sweater in the interim. A very nifty sweater. It was rather colorful and had some beautiful patterns of sheep and raccoons and at least one machete, but I had to sell it to make bail. Now THAT was a funny story. If only I wasn't drunk...
Long story short, I'm addicted to orange jello. I need your help. Please send me a self addressed, stamped envelope full of tacks and silly putty to hurl at squirrels. Thank you.
And now, part of a poem I thought onto a screen so mean as to portray my play on words. Possession is an ambivalent present for one's adult birthday. Hooray.
The days have treaded down the path and now I delight under time's wrath;
I feel so old, but still I'm new, and I'm now certain I have no clue.
I peer into the murky deep, afraid to jump but still I leap;
A hop, a jump, a skip away, and soon I arrive at my last day.
A coffin decked in silken pearls of spider lace and cobweb curls,
Forgotten, lampooned, loathed, and worse: training wheels bedeck my hearse.
It totters to the cliff and then I'm thrown into the abyss I "yen."
You old stiff fool, with bumbling polls; you look at parts, I perceive wholes.
Wholes of lives not yet fulfilled, for fulfillment is all but killed.
Death becomes the dieing yet we all sneeze love as years we fret.
These meters, rhymes, and steady march dry joy from life and souls do parch.
Bouncing along, up, down, up, down, down, plummetting, falling, calling, calling "Help!"but no one hears my yelp in time to save the one who's lost the flock of dawns never to come from boring yawns. Yawning, tired, yet hungry still for piles of mundane holes to fill. Joy, yes, joy, oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy I do love joy, though it plays coy as I try to catch its fickle whims it plays with girls on torn dress hems
I shall not see.
The young laugh and boast, the middle coast, and the old only lament the host
Of folly this life never was, for folly implies fault because
One cannot be a fool and succeed and rule a modest tool
To hammer in the nails of fate and build a house of tarnished plate-
Mail the letters, hear the plea, answer the call from you to me,
Follow not the preferred path, taunt the Gods, enjoy the wrath
Of time that blindmen cannot see, nor deaf can't hear, nor dreamers be
Uncomfortable silences of madmen saner than their peers for years whose seers know
Me.
Say "Yes" my love, my hope, my fate, let's make-up on our final date.
Joy her name, footsie her game, I don't play around til married, yet I'm harried to be buried
In the Southern way of loathing play all live long, sing song dieing day.
Why taunt with nettles, burrs, and playful titterings of hems and hearse.
So I dance my merry dirge, I binge and purge on life in joys and strife of epic magnitude to paltry offerings I dare not throw into the air without a care on a dare of conscience deluded into thinking it does not exist. "Persist!" I scream for in this dream of things that seem to never beam light into the darkness of the end I merrily defend that never ceases
to amaze the craze of cycles.
18, 19, 23, how much larger can you be? 30, 40, 50 hence I straddle the chain-link fence.
60, 70, 85 clapping along I jive and fall into useless 90's, 99 is fine to be a vegetable of a man that never was because what is a man but a can of peas opened and thrown into a recycling bin reused and used again by cans and can nots who never know you have no clue of who or whom the "you" could ever was, is, will not be.
Stop. Breathe. A man, a plan, you don't understand my cries for guidance you can't give except to point out the directions with flashlights I provide you in a slight of hand. Find them, point them, use them until the batteries fall out, empty shells of hells I look and laugh at time's wrath
Full fury of a meek whimper.
Dance! Dance! I may can-could to Orpheus's wood
In groves of trees guiding but not directing.
I leave with "hooey", all I began with and shall end in a triumphant salute.
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