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 needed?
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 deity 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. Being at the behest of her current bellicose minded, sack of meat, lover, Benjamin.
Now as he thought of all the femme fatales that would follow, he couldn’t help but think how limp, lame, and pallid they would be in her shadow. Would 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 clunky puns be in vain on these websites that applied romance calculus, which he currently prowled at two in the morning?
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 that was the chosen avatar of some harlot, surely. Or perhaps it was some maladroit photographer whose poor “selfie” composition incidentally landed on the part of the womanly body, which often attracted the man’s eye, no matter the moral high ground he asserted governed his thoughts and body parts.
As he clocked the time crawl deeper into the night, Trent was in a funk, a malaise with a fog of self-reflection that dampened the sharp beating of his heart. Perhaps, a solo life was all that was in store for him, that and death; there was nothing he was more certain of than he was of death. Death was the barometer by which certainty could be measured. Would she like me enough to allow me to breathe and shudder my nakedness on her? The answers to these types of question were always uncertain, with that capital U, even in the moment of the act, yet he knew as an unadulterated fact he was going to cease breathing and shuddering altogether someday, though his nakedness—that may linger on as scars in certain people’s minds. They’ll see him laid up stiff as a board in his casket, and be reminded how they had once lain with him stiff and pestered when he was alive. Though being that there was at least one fact in life he could be certain of, did give him a morsel of comfort.
Scanning the sundry of profiles of the posturing opposite sex. It was clear to Trent that the older he got, the further a failure as a man he became. He grew into it like one grows into creased, flaccid, liver-spotted skin. And the only skill he had ever honed in all that time was the skill of self-emasculation; a congenital bent that he fine-tuned and wheedled over time into such a straight line through his entire being that it was ubiquitous in every gaze, tick, word, tone, and posture he fronted. 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 an infuriating “loading” circle of madness. 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 any video to play. False adverting that there was any such thing as free will. When any technological device hiccupped, paused, or cease to function at full capacity or at Trent’s immediate will, he growled, snarled, and threw up his hands and readied himself for that black abyss.
The technological social experiment Trent found himself unable to escape was much like his own life; a tangled virtual mess of trending failures.
Trent wasn’t feeling like he was living life at its full positive capacity. Therefore, all he had left was the bromides, and all their proverbs, mottos, catch phrases, witticisms, axioms, and dictums, which he scoured the web for. Pouring over these platitude philosophers who placate to dull and dumb dilettantes of daydreamers and wish thinkers who want nothing more than to be special. Thankfully the Internet and his social feeds were replete with them in fancy fonts and colors. Some even came with picturesque vistas, and musing GIFS. Little trite magical incantations to will happiness into existence. And they were his consoling little bros in these lonesome, post-ejaculate nights.
Though Trent didn’t need to be special, he just needed to be touched, and held, and told he existed and that someone liked that he existed. And there only needed to be one such warm mouth to speak of certainty that they liked that he existed. Only one from over two-billion was required. And he would reciprocate said sentiment, and both could live as humans were meant too. Simply put, he wanted to love, and be loved. Could his bromides help him with that? It was unequivocally uncertain, yet just as likely to be unlikely.