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marQs view of the world
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I confess, I'm a failure...at age 23, I'm not what I'm supposed to be. I've let down
my fellow twenty-somethings, and the media won't let me forget it. I'm almost the
antithesis of everything a good Gen-Xer should be.
First off, I have a decent, well paying, steady job (at least it will be well paying in a
few montths, but even now, it doesn't pay bad ). Sure, I have to wear a uniform,
but it's a coat and tie thing, not a "McJob-polyester-melt-to-your-skin" uniform. My
checks are paid on the 1st and the 15th of the month, with weekends taken into
account. And although I may ask if you'd like peanuts or pretzels, I don't have to
say "You want fries with that?"
I didn't cry when Kurt Nobrain deep throated his 12 gauge (one more rip-off by the
"King of Grunge", in this case Papa Hemingway), and I haven't worn flannel -other
than to stay warm- in about eight years. No, when I doff my work costume, I'm a
jeans/shorts and T-shirt kind of guy. And when I do wear underwear, it's boxers or
Hanes white cotton briefs, not Calvin Klein scrunchy huggers.
I've never been on Prozac, Xanex or whatever this week's depression-curing
wonder drug is. I wasn't abused as a child (hell, I was very rarely even spanked),
nor was I ever molested by a long lost Uncle Fred scarring me for life. I'm not gay,
and I don't spend my days and night obscured in a haze of pot smoke, or staring in
awe at street lights while tripping on bad strychnine filled acid.
No, although I have a few pieces of steel stuck through various parts of my body,
my hair isn't a vibrant green or blinding yellow...Yes, I'm a failure...Forced to face
the fact I'm...(it pains me to say this)...I'm normal, N-O-R-M-A-L. How will I ever
live with myself and this terrible affliction?
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