For The Last Time, I Am

The problem I have and this is not a new complaint (though I hope to elaborate from a fresh perspective) is that single people are considered social outcasts. Society in our Westernized culture has two great goals in life: love and money. We are required to possess at least one of these so-called virtues if we are to be included in the social fold. I am not here to talk about money; I am here to talk about this need people have to fall in love.

I have never been in love.

I also had a perambulatory childhood fraught with bad memories and a fractured family. Are these two points related? I have certainly been forced to consider this, from friends, relatives and shrinks alike. Does it matter? Absolutely not. I must be lucky – it becomes increasingly apparent to me that I do not think quite along the same lines as my peers. I am here to withstand and conquer all that man suggests I ought to be. I am here to risk it all for a purpose without conclusion and some faint glimmer of a universal truth that can be unearthed and change a person’s life in one perfect sentence. I'm here, basically, to write.

At an early age I took up writing and for reasons that still mystify me I’ve remained over the years unwilling to stop at any cost. I have written myself out of the trauma of high school, the identity crisis of college, the Plan B, the shitty retail jobs, the alcoholic year, the unrequited loves and… well, you get the picture.