Spoiler! :
My name is Daniel Finley and this is the story of how I died.
Actually, a more precise description would be that this is the story of the events that occurred during the six months prior to my said demise. If it were in fact just the story of how I died it wouldn’t be much of a story at all really. Probably just a short, unappealing statement saying that a seventeen-year-old boy was hit and killed by a purple Mini Cooper on November 12th. But let’s be honest; the first way sounded much more dramatic and I’ve always believed that if one can’t have a little pomp and flair in death then what’s the whole point to living to begin with?
So, as previously stated, this is the story of how I died.
You’re probably asking yourself right about now something along the lines of, ‘why should I give sod about how this guy died?’ or, perhaps, ‘how long is this asshole going to go on before we actually start the damn story?’. Maybe you’re even the sort who’s wondering about how something with this many grammatical errors and dreadful syntax ever managed to get published into the text you’re reading right now to begin with.
Well, if your thoughts followed the former of those paths then I’m afraid to tell you there’s not really a good reason for you to care. Personally I never saw much significance in my life while I was actually living it, let alone now that I’m dead. But it’s my story and I’m damn well going to tell it so that’s about all the rationale you’re going to get from me. As for the other two possible thought processes I mentioned up there, take those up with the editors. They’re the ones whose job it is to cut all this crap out. I’m just here to spew it.
But really this has all gone on long enough. As far as prologues go this has got to be one of the more pathetic ones out there (though I dare say at least it’s not nearly as bad as some of that trash kids are reading nowadays.) I suppose I should hurry up and get on with the show, so to speak. If you’ll forgive my continued use of the overly used metaphor, we’ll open with a scene exactly six months from my imminent doom, in which I am caught quite literally with my pants down by my own mother.
July 12th: Sin, Hipsters, and Thomas Jefferson
One of the most important things you should be aware of about me is that the only life I had while I was alive was digital.
Because of this and other causes such as elevated hormones, it was not uncommon for me to be shut up in my room sinning my way straight to the devil’s door, as my grandmother would say. It’s a dirty and shameful thing, I know, and every damn guy does it. Go ahead, I dare you to try and find even one teenage boy that doesn't fap at least twice a week.
Anyway, so there I was, whomping my willow to pictures of Emma Watson’s Vanity Fair shoot, minding my own business. I had some background music playing fairly loudly to cover any accidental noises on my part and to set the mood (I always was a romantic at heart). Usually this turns out to be a good idea, but it proved to be my undoing this time. Apparently, I never heard my mother asking if she could come in over the music, so of course I never answered her, meaning that she, of course, came in.
Just as I did something of a similar nature.
Now, you’re probably wondering why I chose to start things off with this humiliating scene instead of, say, a couple of hours or even days later. My answer is that you should hold your damn horses and just let me do things my way.
And also because this is what caused my mom to have her heart attack and set into motion the events that would eventually kill me.
Back to the story though. There we were, staring at each other with faces distorted with our emotions; hers was a mix of shock and revulsion, mine with ecstasy and shame. Then she just sort of leans against my doorframe and sinks to the floor while I try my best to get decent without any additional R rated showings on my part.
I hurry over to her, where her prone form still slumped against my door. “Mom! Mom! Oh shit shit shit shit Mom!” I shake her a bit and then, realizing this wasn’t the time to panic, decided to call for help. “Christ, DAD! DAD COME UP ITS MOM! I’VE KILLED HER!”
Obviously this wasn’t my best hour.
About an hour later my dad and I are sitting in the emergency room, waiting for news. It's pretty empty for an emergency room. There are a couple of middle-aged and elderly people sitting around us, but they're all remarkably quiet. The only real noises are the ones coming from the nurses’ desk and a shabby looking T.V. hanging in the corner.
I tap my foot.
A clock ticks.
An old man coughs.
My dad clears his throat. “We should probably get you a lock for your door. For, you know, privacy and all that.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I scratch my nose.
“Things like this happen all the time you know. Nothing to be ashamed off, really. Completely natural.”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“Oh yeah, yeah of course.” My dad rubs the stubble on his chin.
The clock ticks.
A dark guy in light blue scrubs comes into the room. He looks at the clipboard in his hands. “Mr. Finely? John Finely?”
We jump up. “That’s me. How’s my wife? Is she alright?” My dad asks clamping his hands together in front of him.
“She’s fine. She’s resting right now, but everything’s checked out fine.” the guy answers, giving us this reassuring smile.
“Oh thank god,” my dad sighs, then shakes the guy’s hand. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s what I’m here for. Now, she had a minor heart attack, brought on by the shock of, err,” He shoots me a glance and I, suddenly, realize what a fascinating color of blue my shoelaces are. “Well, the shock, but we got her squared away. If you’d like you can go in and see her in a bit. I just need you to sign some things first while I explain her condition some more if that’s alright?”
“Yes, that’ll be fine. You’ll be okay here by yourself for a bit?” my dad asks, turning to me.
“Yeah, go on. I’ll just go get a drink or something.” I reassure him, and then turn and head down the hall where I’d seen some vending machines earlier when we came in.
I eventually find them after a bit of wandering and proceed to stare at my choices. They’re rather dismal to be honest. The machine’s more than half empty, so aside from a few brands of chips and crackers all that there are are some Twix bars and DoubleMint gum packages. I put in my dollar and punch in D14. The little round metal thing moves and then stops after completing it’s designated circle. My Twix bar, however, remains suspended in its coil.
I stare at it.
This, sadly, was my life. To rip off a man far wittier than me, it was a series of unfortunate events that each aspired to be more humiliating than the last. It wasn’t that I was unlucky or cursed or anything. I just had a rotten time of it.
In terms of the world, I guess I had it pretty easy. I wasn’t dying of AIDS or living in the streets after all. My parents were okay, if overly all around normal. My dad worked as the Regional Sales Manager from some big pharmaceutical company and my mom worked as the local Avon lady for the women in our neighborhood. Between the two of them, we lived in a nice house in the good part of town and had a pretty decent life.
My social life was were things started to go downhill. There are loads of reasons that could explain why I’m such a loser, like my being an only child or because some crap about technology causing isolation or whatever you want to believe. But as for me, I think it’s just because I don’t care enough to fix it.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those apathetic, miserable, hipster assholes who thinks Catcher in the Rye’s the greatest thing since sliced bread or anything. It actually does bother the hell out of me that I can’t get a girl or real friends. I just think that if a person really wants something bad enough, they try and try for it until they achieve it, like Jefferson and the light bulb. I mean there was one dedicated bastard. If I tried even half as many times at being cool as he did with that one idea then I’d be Charlie Sheen right now. But I haven’t and I’m not.
I’m just me.
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