Death, Nostalgia

Award Winning Storyteller: H2$

My mouth’s ability to rock harder than I pretend my dick rocks has been validated by three randomly chosen groups of drunks in a bar. By this I mean that I won the latest Moth StorySlam telling this story.

I now get to join a bunch of¬†ridiculously¬†good storytellers at the GrandSlam and tell some story that’ll probably have to do with my fear of my penis.

Success is a frightening concept. When you realize that you’ve done something that is successful – you’ve gotten something that you’ve desired for a long time – you assume that your life will be better. I’ve spent the first three hours of my day glad that I bought Veggie Stix and carrot juice to celebrate my victory, but was too lazy to return these snacks to the kitchen at the end of the night because now I have breakfast resting next to my bed. Breakfast that I must eat while watching Glee and smelling the awful smell of an armpit that has sweat nervously through a performance and not been washed. This is what success feels like? This feels similar to the failure I’m so used to experiencing.

I made a joke in my story about how I spent my days jerking off to hulu and that joke wouldn’t have been possible had I not spent days jerking off to hulu. This action is the epitome of my failure – my lack of desire to participate in society, opting instead for an insular, masturbatory (in so many ways) life spent creating a perfectly carved out indentation in my mattress. In order to achieve success, you must drive through failure – the future-past.

Retirement seemed like a crock to me. My parents attempted to retire last year and for a couple of months they managed to do so. They spent their days playing on the computer, with their horses, on their kayaks, in the garden – and they loved it. My dad called me once and said: “I get it now. I get why you don’t do anything – it’s so much fun.” The concept of retirement was always dumb to me. Retirement was the idea that you would put off your ability to adventure for a time when you were physically incapable of enjoying the world. Now I recognize that I have set myself up for a constant series of retirements. I want to bite the bullet and then talk about how ammunition tastes. I want to go through a series of lives, and I think I can. I don’t have to put all the misery in one half and the happiness in the other. I can alternate like a sine wave over the x-axis – constantly switching from shit that I have to put up with to getting to enjoy the shit I put up with.

Future-past.

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