I’ve rarely done things with a conventional rhythm. From songwriting to handwriting, my way has always differed from others. I remember being taken to a small, dimly lit room in the basement of my elementary school for special instruction on writing my letters. When I wrote my E’s I started from the wrong end, and my K’s were rather problematic. But it wasn’t for lack of intelligence, I just didn’t like their way. The most comfortable temperature for me when driving in the car is one that allows my breath to be visible in front of me. I spent an entire year refusing to buy anything that wasn’t Adidas brand. I’ve rarely done things with any sort of conventional rhythm. Sometimes I come so dreadfully near to failure that, rather than accepting it, I turn completely around and shoot for the other end of the spectrum all together. Such has been the story as of late.
A mountain of personal and emotional problems came so close to destroying me that I was forced to retaliate with equal force. When life takes away your lemons, make apple juice. (Lemonade sucks anyways.) The University of Washington has around 45,000 students in attendance, of which, I am one. Such a looming ratio can make one feel quite insignificant. When you add in the factor of prescribed realities—the eerie orange bottles of medicinal benefit—the ratio heightens. On top of this, a history of familial fuck-up, repression, unhealthy relationships, and too much Dr. Pepper equates to, at least, the weight of the world—if not the known universe.
I cannot carry both my books and the weight of the known universe with me to class every morning. When the ability to move is revoked, when the desire to pull one’s legs from the sheets in the morning is nonexistent, when you have, for lack of a better term, become a zombie; something must change. And so feeling someone must either blow my brains out or find a cure for this undead disease, I sought first the cure. After a few thorough sessions with my team of life strategists, not enough sleep, some Belizean rum, and a number of other uncounted outside influences, I deduced that my current academic load was holding down a life that could barely stand on two legs without it. Was I wrong in this assertion? Not at all. Was I going to admit defeat? I considered it, briefly.
Instead, I gathered up that team of strategists, still not nearly enough sleep, no Belizean rum this time, and, again, a number of uncounted outside influences, and decided that rather than get slapped in the face by the bitch that is life I, Daniel Robert Spendlove, doctor, philosopher, writer—pimp—smacked that bitch and said, “You listen here, whore, you give me my money or else.” Then I gave her a very resentful look and spit on her strappy shoes. She turned her story around real quick and gave me back my lemons. One by one I threw the lemons back, all the while screaming, “You do that to me again and see what happens!” She’s been behaving like a dog with a shock collar ever since.
If you’ve been reading with as much astuteness as I now hold you responsible, you’ll have deduced that rather than dropout of the University of Washington I decided to double major in Creative Writing and Early Childhood and Family Studies, and maybe a minor in Philosophy. Some people have to fall off the horse and get back on. Others have to come so close to killing the horse that in nursing it back to health they take the opportunity to reform what was once merely field grazer into a steed of resounding brilliance.
With a glass of apple juice in hand, life at my knees, a wallet devoid of green but brimming with possibility, I now embark on an adventure to be twice the man I once was and five times the man I ever expected to be. This, friends, is a new set of tires, a sharpened blade, a pair of newly polished shoes, a bed with fresh sheets. This is a light burnt out, and me choosing the fancy new energy efficient bulb that lasts 70 times as long rather than replacing it with the same. old. shit.
When the “rain” stops, perhaps I’ll be able to tell you my feelings on this one! One who writes as well as you may have a gift for reading between the lines as well. I am looking for, maybe finding one of those new-fangled bulbs for myself.