We, as humans, have certain rules… regulations, that map out for us what is right, and what is wrong. Certain situations that occur, you can immediately tell if you’re doing a good thing, or other times you know you’re doing a no-no when you can’t stop thinking “I hope my parents don’t find out about this.”
Donating money to a hospital. Good.
Blowing a hospitalized guy to obtain some of their painkillers. Bad.
Holding the door open for someone. Good.
Going naked door to door, telling people you’re taking donations for your latest “film project.” Bad… really bad. Really fucked up actually.
But sometimes, you run into situations where you can’t tell whether what you are doing is right or wrong. It’s a gray area that leaves you wondering… is my life going in a positive direction?
Like let’s say, for the sake of saying, you woke up at 5 am. Unsure of where you were, trembling from the gallon of Taurine pulsating through your veins (Thank you 15 vodka, Red Bulls… you’ve been tremendous). You realize it’s Monday and you have to be at work at 7 am; your work is an hour and a half away. Your mind in a haze, you dash out to your car, stubbing your toe on every wall corner. You ride the elevator with an attractive young girl in jogging attire; you want to strike up a conversation but your breath smells like a hamster’s cage, and opening your trap could cause the girl to convulse and foam at the mouth. The walk to your car is a weird one, the South Boston air is still buzzing from St Patty’s Day the day prior. Kicking beer cans, stomping on wet cardboard four leaf clovers and signs that say “Kiss Me, I’m Irish!” you try to not fall down, but are unsuccessful due to the sharp descent from curb to street. You make it to your car and haul ass onto the interstate.
On the interstate you realize that you can’t see out of your back window… something is obstructing your view. You pull off the one exit that doesn’t have a gas station within a 10 mile radius; the only gas station you find is abandoned and now looks like the primary place for crack to be dealt. Upon exit of your vehicle a shitty looking homeless man comes up to you, you tell him you’re going to rip his fucking ears off if he comes any closer. He states that he just wants a couple bucks so he can catch the T back into downtown Boston. You keep your guard up but lower the spork you have in your hand which you were going to jam into the man’s temple. You throw a sweaty crumpled dollar at him and bolt back into your car and type into your GPS system: “Predominantly rich white neighborhood please.”
You pull over in a different gas station, you still can’t see out of your back window. When you open the back hatch to your SUV you realize that it’s a giant box… inside is a 15 foot inflatable pool that you bought that Friday but forgot to take it out of your car. You then try and take out said box and jam it into your backseat, the whole time noting the “Team Lift” sticker on the side of the box. The box is ridiculously heavy, you decide it might have been a bad purchase… considering the circumstances.
(I retract my previous statement, I’ve always wanted a pool. I want to jump off my roof into it. Whether it be above ground or not, is beside the point)
Because that’s really the key to story telling and writing isn’t it?; you need to have some sort of point as to WHY you’re telling me a story. Too many people haven’t the slightest clue of what constitutes a good story and a bad story, and it’s kind of bullshit if you ask me. If you’re going to bore me with some pointless drivel about the time your friend and you got so drunk you shouted racial epithets at the TV and passed out on your porch, you better at least attempt at telling it properly.
Example of a bad story: I went to prom with this girl. Like I knew her friend first… I liked her friend, her friend was kind of hot. She wanted me for a little bit, but we never did anything… I mean we fooled around a little in 10th grade… was it 10th grade? Or 11th? No, it WAS 10th, because in 11th I dated this girl named Kimmy. She was tall, not like tall tall, but pretty tall, about your height. How tall are you?
I seriously heard that exact story not to long ago. I wanted to educate him on how to correctly tell a story, but instead I just shoved a road flare in his ass.
The reason he STARTED telling me the story was because he was going to tell me about this girl he went to prom with. But in the end he ends up asking me how tall I am? How is that a fucking correct story?
The point is, I was the guy in the above story. The guy who woke up staggering drunk (bad) but still made it to work on time (good). The guy who saved an attractive women a trip to the ER by not breathing in her face (good) but still held up a homeless man at spork-point (bad? That’s probably good actually…)
And now, I’m sitting here, watching Seinfeld on DVD (because syndication is for chumps), my fingers scrambling all over my keyboard trying to pump this out before I throw up in my lap. I’m sitting here, with a giant box holding my 15 foot inflatable pool next to me, waiting for the weather to warm up so I can set this shit up and jump off my roof into it.
I’m sitting here wondering, is my life going in a positive direction?
Author: John MacGregor
