Random writing… “Bromides”
Being the better writer I want to be I’ve attempted to expand my vocabulary by learning new words. Always a good practice so I believe. Here is something I wrote utilizing some new words I’ve learned, cause, hey why not?
Sure some of these words may appear odd, out-of-place, or just plain pretentious. So what? Doesn’t mean I can’t use the fuckers.
Before I get into the random writing I’m reminded of something that I want to share with all of you. I remember once being a young man (teenager) hanging out with my older brother’s friend and some of his culturally astute, learned, and erudite pals (the university types), and after being exposed to some stimulating conversations on topics and subjects I can not recall now, and probably only understood a quarter of at the time, we went back to his place to chill. Still fresh on the high of the esoteric lifestyle I took part in, I started to mimic their tones, cadence, and speech patterns while attempting to dip my toes in some philosophical banter with my older brother’s friend, also my friend, when he hushed me and asked me to stop pretending to be someone, or something I was not—in this case an intellectual. I instantly went quiet, feeling terrible, feeling like I was some sort of poser, imposter, or some dissembler of intelligence. He put me in my place, in a box, back in the state-of-mind of a child, belittled for trying to expand my horizon as a thinker, orator, or debater.
In his defense I’m sure I was sounding ridiculous, and this offended and annoyed him for some reason. Although this shut me up that night, and perhaps I refrained from having any meaningful, thoughtful discussions with him going forward. I never stopped flinging myself into areas I was inept in which was a sure way to make a fool of myself. A price, I did, and do not mind paying. I’ve been a mimicker all my life. It’s always been a major tactic in the way I’ve learned things. I mimic the things I like and I mimic in order to possess the skills I want. I mimic until I “own it”, or if you prefer, “fake it ’til I make it”, (it’s debatable as to if I actually ever do “own it” or “make it”).
Perhaps at times I may come off as foolish, weird, goofy, silly, fake, callow, insincere, tyro, lazy, laughable, a counterfeit or an imposter. My mimicking skills may not be perfect, and I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not an intellectual or some big time thinker. Hell I still suck at spelling and grammar, and often am awkward as I stumble and bumble my way through new cerebral territory. But I just want to say, hey man, so what? It’s my thing, it’s how I roll, it’s my process.
Anyone trying to improve themselves should not be discourage for stepping outside the box by which they or others have drawn around them. No one should be made to feel poorly for their effort in expanding their intellect and growth as a human being. No one should feel ashamed for trying to come off as something they’re not, if in fact their goal is to become that person—a better person, or simply just pursuing betterment on a whole. We all have to start somewhere. Especially if we’re not born with a particular talent, and skill must be honed and sharpened with continuous attention and care. Practice makes perfect, right? So don’t abase someone for practicing.
I get it, at times it can hurt the ears, feel like nails on a chalkboard, but in the end I believe we all benefit from the experience of a richer human interaction. Because some kid, after listing to some grownups discuss grownup things starts trying to talk grownup himself. Even starts walking around in his daddy’s suit. Imitating that which he admires. Yes at first he may look silly as he swims inside the oversized garb, spouting words he may not fully understand and erroneously use, but eventually he’ll grow into that suit, learn the proper usage of the words. He’ll become his own man, the man he aspires to be.
Bottom line… don’t be a dick. Cause some memories just don’t leave you. No matter how small and insignificant these remarks may have been to him, something he probably wouldn’t even remember saying, sure as heck left me struggling with who I was, or who I could be at the time. Perhaps even stunted my potential by discouraging me from going places beyond my scope, when really they weren’t. Sorry, I’m rambling.
Trent decided, with the aid of inspirational bromides, that it was high time he went out and found a partner for some conscious coupling. It dawned on him one night after a quotidian jerk-off session—which felt all too prosaic and vapid, that his solo love life needed that—let’s just say—a woman’s touch. Perhaps a female companion that was nonpareil in the ways of making him feel like a man, was in order.
Then he was reminded by the small shrine of memorabilia in a shoe box he kept under his bed that he already had such a fine creature in his past and she was now long gone, out of his orbit, never to be spoken to, looked at, or rubbed up against ever again. This being at the firm request of her latest, bellicose minded and smoked meat headed lover, Benjamin.
Now he couldn’t help but think, all those femme fatales that follow will pale in her shadow, surely. Will these plebeian females to come just “have to do?” Would “good enough” actually be good enough? Or was he just being supercilious towards the spring catalogue of prospects in the digital world of dating. Would his virtual pick-up lines and clever puns be in vain on these dating websites that he was now prowling at two in the morning? Time was ticking onwards after all, marching dead-straight into oblivion.
These questions circled his peripheral for a few moments until he swatted them aside, much like his swiping left on the seemingly endless frozen faces of smiling women and the occasional busty cleavage which was the avatar of some harlot surely. Or perhaps it was some maladroit photographer whose poor “selfie” composition incidentally landed on the part of the female body which always attracts the man’s eye no matter the moral high-ground he proclaims rules his thoughts and actions.
Yes Trent found himself in a funk, a malaise which fogged his thoughts and dampened the sharp beating of his heart. Death, perhaps, is the only future left for him, he thought. The older he got, it seemed, the further a failure as a man he became.
Self-emasculation was a skill he possessed and had a natural flare for, and then fine-tuned and wheedled over time into such a subtle and prevalent state it was ubiquitous in every gaze, tick, word, tone, and posture he fronted. Yes so pervasive was his loathing for himself, the mantra “I hate my life”, was uttered in every instance his video streaming service froze and produced the unwelcome and infuriating animated circling “loading” symbol that seemed to chase its own tail for an eternity. This was surely a virtual flipping off of the middle finger by the cosmos, proof that he in fact had no actual power to demand the video to play. No powers what-so-ever. Other provocations such as the internet simply refusing to work would invoke his other catch phrase; “Jesus fucking Christ”, along with its collocate; a loud audible groan.
In fact when any technological device hiccuped, paused, or cease to function at full capacity or at Trent’s immediate will, he would grumble, snarl, and throw up his hands in defeat and readied himself for that black abyss to swallow him whole. All he has to do is wait, he thought, and it’ll come sure enough.
The technological social experiment Trent found himself unable to escape was much like his own life; a tangled virtual mess and trending. Yes, Trent is not living life at its full positive capacity; in fact his quality of life has shifted far from the pink and deep into the maroon. Therefore all he had left was the bromides. The internet and his social feeds were replete with them in fancy fonts and colors. Yes, they were his bros in these lonesome, post-ejaculate nights.