A Reason

Thing is, there must be a reason. Too many variables have contributed to my potential success or at least to my reason for being and it seems like the only thing stopping me from achieving the success I was undoubtedly born to achieve is my inability to get off my ass and a tragic lack of imagination.

The main variable is the accident of my birth. No big deal, a lot of women find out they’re pregnant and have to think what to do about it. In my case, according to my dad, he wanted me and she didn’t. What a terrible thing to do to a man, turn him against his mother like that.

Just joking. Who gives a damn.

I was about twenty-two, sitting in the back seat of the car, and they were having another fight. The argument itself was meaningless, but as long as I was there I was supposed to call the winner, and therefore declare my parental preference. It went back and forth for a while before he said, “She didn’t even want to have you.” Now, I was happy to let it slide. I was old enough to understand that a woman with little money and a two-year-old girl needed another baby like she needed another mother-in-law, but my mom was shocked and even started to cry.

“It wasn’t like that. I love you very much.” And to my dad, “Why did you do that? Why did you tell him that?” And again to me, “I never regretted having you. Never. Do you believe me?”

There are other variables: There was a near death experience, there’s a grandma that tells me she knows I'll be succesful because she knows. And how does she know? Well, she was born with her coat on, so she knows. It would seem almost impossible to fail with so many things pointing at a sure success.

Then again, of course, people live, experience shit, and die all the time. Every day, millions of them just live and die with no reason, and the world keeps turning, unaware of their existence, unmoved by their unoriginal desires and meaningless prayers.