Nineteen

Just A Note-I'm plugging away at my book, and I'm really enjoying the writing process. Looking back at myself while I was doing the project and writing about myself as a nineteen year old is one of my favorite things. The nostalgia alone is intoxicating. So here's another chunk of what I think will be in my book. It will most likely stay as the first chapter. Short and sweet, it's sort of a snapshot of what my life looked like at the height of my lethargic days as a nineteen year old. I'd appreciate any feedback.

It’s embarrassing for me to think about, and even more for me to admit; but at one point in my life, I was a nineteen year old boy.

I’m sorry.

The typical nineteen year old boy is a vile creature. Spending most of his daylight hours burrowed away in the safety of a bedroom in his father’s suburban home; the nineteen year old only leaves the poster plastered walls of his teenage sanctuary for the occasional bathroom break, or to heat up some sort of microwavable entree. 
There is no sleep cycle for this creature. Rather, his stream of consciousness just sort of fluctuates between states of semi-awake and sort of asleep throughout the day. The nineteen year old communicates exclusively in one word -preferably one syllable- sentences, and speaks in a pseudo-language made up of a mixture of sighs, grunts, and the word “dude”. Since school is no longer mandated, brain activity slows down to a modest crawl. This particular nineteen year old dropped out of college after what he claims was a “college try” (approximately 3 weeks).

As night falls, and the world goes to sleep, the boy begins his day. He strategically waits until the rest of the house is asleep before heading into the bathroom to start his morning routine. If for some reason the boy does not wait a sufficient amount of time before leaving his room, he might run into someone. And for a boy his age, any social interaction is feared and prevented at all costs. He has learned from experience that nothing good can come from talking to anyone. His brain is still in that mushy infancy stage between childhood and adulthood, and his social skills have been on the decline since high school. Even a conversation with a family member or friend is reserved as a last resort. The chances of saying something stupid or experiencing his voice crack is more of a guarantee than a chance. 

This boy is wise to stay secluded in his room, for in his room, adults dare not enter. Due to the unbearable stench of neglected teenage laundry that permeates the walls of his den, he is safe from interrogation from a parent or loved one. Inside his room he is free to do what he wants, which is mostly drink chocolate milk and draw cartoons.

After the nineteen year old is certain that all chance of social interaction has been avoided, he heads into the bathroom. Depending on the week, he may, or may not choose to shower (a double-dabbing of deodorant stick is also an option). A fresh change of clothes happens even less frequently. Through his desire to exert the least amount of energy possible, the boy follows a rotating schedule for t-shirts and pants to ensure that he only does laundry every month or so. 

1. Wear dark colored clothing to cover up food stains
2. Alternate t-shirts daily to avoid suspicion
3. Wear jeans as long as desired (nobody cares about jeans)

In the bathroom mirror, the nineteen year old carefully examines himself. His ever changing body is in the process of becoming an adult. His scattered acne is slowly traded for patchy whiskers, and his Adam's apple is so prominent that it might tear through the skin. After about 20 minutes of flexing in the mirror, the boy inevitably decides not to shower after all. He makes a stop in the kitchen to ravage the contents of the fridge before retreating back to his musky bedroom.

Once he is settled in, he spends the rest of his waking hours scrolling through the social media feeds of his drifting high school classmates while watching documentaries about outer space.

The life of a nineteen year old is one of leisure. His schedule is relaxed, his bank account is empty, and all he really wants to do is to waste more time alone in his smelly bedroom.

A Justification for Action and Inaction

     I'm moving out soon. I've been planning my move for the better part of four years now, but I'm serious about this; I'm moving.
     I think I'll go west, I like the idea of it. Seems adventurous ya know? Like I'm doing that chase the sunset song and dance. Maybe Seattle, maybe Portland, maybe even California. I haven't decided on a destination yet, but that's not the point. The point is that I have made the decision to move.
     When I tell people about my plan (or lack there of), I am usually greeted with a puzzled look. They ask things like; "You're just going to go? West?" and " What about money? You need money, ya know?"...And to be fair, these are all valid points that should be taken into consideration when deciding whether or not to pack up and start anew halfway across the country. Factors such as money and housing arrangements are no joke, and should be taken seriously...But not too seriously, I'd argue.
     See, I have been thinking about the logistical aspect of such a decision for a while now. I've spent quite a bit of time stressing over the things that I should be stressing over. Things like not having enough money to afford to eat stale Top Roman, and not being able to find a suitable job, and my car breaking down halfway through Utah and me having to start my new life in the disappointment that is, Utah- These are all sincere thoughts that have entered my mind within the past few months. These sort of scenarios are scary, but they're practical. Fear of making the wrong choice (or not making the absolute best one), is a great way to ensure that you make a wise decision. But when the fear of making a bad decision becomes so great that you become afraid of making any sort of decision, you've let fear make your choice for you.
     ...And that's the kind of fruitless mental state that I've been in for the past couple years now. I've wanted nothing more than to move away for so long now, but my fear of messing up; of making a decision that hindsight might regret, has left me paralyzed. I've been so afraid of making a poor choice, that I forgot to even choose. I let indecision be my decision, and inaction be my action. But not anymore.
   
The way I see it; I've been working to afford stability since I was fifteen years old. And since then, I've been broke. I've never had money, but for the most part, I've been happy; and I think I'm OK with that lifestyle. And if there's any evidence that my decision to pack up and head west is a good decision, it's that.

Headed west.