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And yeah, I did say one and a half didn’t I? This one is really only half done, but I got called away and didn’t get around to finishing. So you may have the story without an ending.
Once upon a midsummers evening, as the cold winds of winter blew across the desert landscape of London home, I realized it was time I grew up. As is to be expected, this is fairly scary occasion in the life of a young child, but when you reach the age of twenty-five and six hundred eighty sevenths of one thousand, the prospect of doing so is enough to quite literally scare you senseless. I should know, I’ve lost my senses on numerous occasions. Oddly enough, they’ve never returned (or so I’ve been told), but I keep losing them. I’m not certain how that works, so I blame the government. I have no idea what that word even means, but apparently they’re responsible for a lot of stuff that go wrong, and very little that goes right. So I naturally feel a strange affinity to them.
But I neglect my growing up. It was long delayed, long put off, long procrastinated on, and most importantly, long postponed, not to mention all the times it was tardy, late, behind, deferred, and hindered. But at long last a hint of maturity shone through, and demanded more in like kind, so I did what any self-respecting man or woman would do when presented with reason why they shouldn’t be self-respecting; I resisted with all the force I could muster, and as little dignity as I could get by on. It was a bid deal, good attention grabber, for a time I even forgot what all the fuss was about. That right there is the sure sign that you’re doing that sort of thing right.
Of course, in the end, I never really stood a chance. Maturity had found its mark, and it sunk in real deep. So deep that I’m still pretty sure that it is far deeper than most other people’s. We late bloomers are like that, or at least I am. Naturally, other people probably don’t know this, but that’s OK. I do, and that’s what matters in the end. If one were to doubt my maturity, well, they obviously have a bit of a mental problem. I try not to look down on those people, but it’s so hard.
Maturity always confused me when I was around the age of twelve and four hundredths of a thousand. I think it was probably the fact that I didn’t have much of a father figure in my life. Oh, my dad was right enough, kind, loving, gentle, caring, all the clichés of the father who dies in chapter one of any good story, but his figure was rather unpleasing. I have never seen larger arms on that skinny of a body. I blame most of my alleged psychological issues on that. But I forget what I was speaking of. With such a poor father figure, it was hard to get a good latch on maturity. Apparently the mature ones are those who are big, successful, and don’t laugh when something funny (like bully Billy Bob falling face down in a beautifully wet cow pie) occurs. I heard some people telling my dad that he wasn’t mature when they saw him in tears of laughter from the browned face of Billy Bob sobbing in the smelly earth.
I think that’s where my confusion began. They told him that he needed to grow up. Oddest thing in the world to tell a man of thirty extremely odd years. And they told me that too. It took me quite some time to straighten out that maturity and age are actually two very different things. Strangely enough, the people who proclaim this most avidly don’t actually believe it. Once my father realized this, he upped the whole family, and moved to the leafy jungles of New York, where I have lived ever since. I think it was in protest, but I doubt anyone noticed. My father was one of those people who thought that doing something angrily enough will get people’s attention, regardless of what that thing is. I think that’s because he’s going through a second childhood. So the terrible twos are doubled in their terror.
Which brings me back to the age/maturity barrier. I forgot to add a third class actually: Insanity. Insanity, and stupidity actually. Insanity is that thing you good reader suspected me of after reading the opening to this, my story. It later morphed into you thinking me stupid, and about now, probably immature, and arrogant. Either that, or I’m actually not Sherlock Holmes, and my good Dr. Watson is just a sock puppet after all. Its things like that which wreak a budding adult’s childhood. Let dreaming wise-men lie at peace in their fantasy.
Wow, funny enough I could actually see you being like this. Maybe. You explained it so well it sounds like you’ve had practice. ? LOL
Another rather interesting read from Sir Count Ezra of Bologna.
HC
S—sir what? Except for that last part, I agree. And I only don’t agree with that last part because… how can a moose be a count or have anything to do with bologna?
Perhaps, moose bologna?
Sir Count Erza of Moose Bologna.
HC
Wow, funny enough I could actually see you being like this. Maybe. You explained it so well it sounds like you’ve had practice. ? LOL
People keep telling me that…
I kinda do. I ramble as much as this person. (Who, by the way, is the same character in my mind every time. I want to forever have this person remain a genderless, nameless, nobody. Who just is really…weird.)
Yeah but people love weird. Have you ever heard of Potato Grams? This guy is making money from writing customized messages on potatoes and sending them to people. Weird! Weird things sell, like bottled water.
And about that character in your head, I think you should really see a shrink. Just sayin’. ? just kidding.
HC
The moose approve of the platypus approval.
I say Mark, I haven’t posted the WIP here…
Today I spilled my coffee. Someone is going to die
This line (and the explanation) made me laugh hard…albeit mainly internally because my sister is sitting behind me and thinks me crazy enough as it is. 😉
INTJ - Inhumane. No-feelings. Terrible. Judgment and doom on everyone.
OK, but you know what’s funny, I’ll tell you what’s funny.
The ‘contest’ I entered this story in, had the parameters of having to follow a prompt given by the judge. One of the prompts was, “Use this phrase in your story: Today I spilled my coffee. Someone is going to die.”
And I did.
Whal, ya did a gude job o’ disguising it thar.
Seriously, it fit in seamlessly.
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