Death and Other Side Effects by Rose Maldonado

Author:Rose Maldonado [Maldonado, Rose]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-11T06:00:00+00:00

17

Kerouac or Bust…

I wake up before Jonah does. After a few minutes, I try to fall back asleep, but it’s pointless. I’ve tossed and turned all night. My father’s words replay in my mind, like a scratched record that won’t stop skipping—he wants to see you as soon as possible…I feel like marching into his office right now just so I can get it over with. What good would that do, though? It’s all a pointless game, and I’m tired of playing by their rules. If that makes me a sore loser, then so be it. I don’t even know what I’m waiting for anymore. Maybe, it’s time that I pull the proverbial plug.

It’s so stupid, but there are still all these things that I want to do and just knowing that I’ll never get to do them is holding me back. I’ve wasted so much time already. It’s times like these when I wonder what all of this is even for? What’s the point in me being here on this Earth anymore? I feel like such a waste of space. I’m trapped in this worthless body, that has failed me before I’ve even reached my twenties. I haven’t done anything with the sixteen years that I have lived on this godforsaken planet. The list of could of and should of seems to only be growing as the days drag on, and although mine are numbered, I still can’t seem to check anything off.

I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, but that would take months and maybe even years, which I don’t have. I try to think of smaller things, things that I could accomplish, but even those things seem ridiculous now. For instance, I could get that tattoo of Joe Strummer’s famous words that I’ve always wanted, but a tattoo on a dying girl, that says, “The future is unwritten,” would be kind of ironic and not in a cool, ‘I wear my combat boots to the beach’ sort of way.’ Then there’s the extensive list of books that I’ve started reading and never finished. As many times as I have tried, I have yet to finish reading the copy of On The Road, that my father saved from his high school English class so that he could one day pass it down to me.“So, why don’t you quit feeling sorry for yourself and read the damn book?” A small annoying voice asks in my head.

I turn onto my side and open the drawer of my nightstand. After all, there are certain times when you should listen to the voices in your head. Does that make me sound insane? Eh…Who cares? Normal is just a cycle on the washer machine, right? I think dad’s old buddy, Kerouac said it best, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved…” Kerouac understood something that only few people do. I won’t even begin to pretend

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