Returning Home

I stepped over the pile of clothes on my bedroom floor and flung my school bag onto the unmade bed.

I reconsidered, picked up the bag and dropped it onto the floor next to the t-shirts that used to be clean but would do in a pinch, and flung myself onto the unmade bed.

"I have to go to work again tomorrow," I thought aloud, but not loud enough that anybody else in my house would think I was crazy for talking to myself. I closed my eyes and put on my headphones.

Even the disappointment carried over to the music world. What used to be the thing I loved most in the world had broken my heart so many times that I’d become jaded and disturbed. I had dreams about something–writing, or being in a band, something. I might have been confused, but at least I had dreams. Now I was just going through the motions until something better came along. 19-year-olds aren’t supposed to work Monday to Friday jobs or squander money on diner food and gasoline.

It’s funny how everybody chases the American Dream that gets fed to them as little kids staring at the TV, but when they become jaded, there’s no such thing anymore. Now it’s just saving up money for stuff you don’t even want to pay for. I don’t want car insurance. I don’t need it. I’m a good driver. But I don’t even want to drive a car. I want to hitchhike and take public transportation and bum rides off my friends and parents. THAT’s the American Dream. Bumming rides off people.