Who Am I As a Writer?

Who am I as a writer?

Dear My Upcoming English Teacher,

This paper is my personal warning to you, for what you should expect for the upcoming term.

I am every English teacher’s worst nightmare. I am pompous, narcissistic, annoying, and unnecessarily long-winded. And worst of all, I am completely aware of all these flaws, and yet I still churn out lines and lines of nonsensical drivel that a drooling twitching, half-vegetative solitary inmate could translate. I don’t simply talk the talk. I am obligated to walk the walk, and write sentences that trail for endless miles, that even a southerner like Faulkner would spit-take his daily Hennessey if he ever happened upon such an utter travesty. My essay has such a convoluted logical structure; at this moment, Aristotle is rising from his grave simply to beat me with his femur. By the end of this catastrophe, you will be ripping your hair out, wad by wad, sanity teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Quite an ambitious statement, I must say. I have to alienate any possible reader group without going into copout lazy, overused routines, like a gross-out shtick, a racist rant, a constant stream of profanity, or an imitation of insanity. And yet, you (yes, you unlucky bastard) still anticipate something ominous in the near future. Unfortunately, you are correct. I must confess; I have purposefully sabotaged your every attempt at a successful class this entire term. Whilst you have taught your lectures, ignorant of my machinations in the back row, I have been causing mass havoc. Do you remember that child in the second grade who used to give the twenty-five year old female teacher gray hair by causing such a ruckus that she would never be able to ever have a lesson, that by the end of the term, she had to be institutionalized? I am that child, however much older and grown far more conniving with age. Many a professor have fallen victim to my devilishly good looks and my witty charms, and numerous lessons have fallen wayside to my experienced diversionary tactics. This is merely a courtesy to a fellow academic I respect. Tally the amount of times I’ve sidetracked you, subtly disrupted your lessons, or interrupted your lectures with inane trivia. Read onwards.

You must be gripping the paper, shaking with boiling rage at this point, screaming yourself hoarse, strangling an invisible neck – anything to release this frustration this essay is building in you. That rattling crash was most likely your stapler being thrown at high velocity against the wall. The only thing keeping you reading is your sick curiosity, resembling something more like masochism, a blazing intent to discover any saving grace in this windbag’s musings. Sorry, there isn’t anything.

Even behind the scenes, in the interaction between the students, I am a mastermind at work, the perfect anti-scholar. I may appear to be the perfect pupil for a class: diligent, attentive, an English major with a wide literary knowledge. Yet, this all serves only to let your guard down. I have been giving horrendous advice to my peers, while they are ever so trustworthy of my angelic grin and my mesmerizing counsel. Articles? Lose them. Conjunctions? Unnecessary. Now you can see why all my classmates’ papers, other then my glorious works of art, look like an E.E. Cummings poem. This completely destroys the curve for the grade towards my favor. Not such a teacher’s pet anymore, am I?

Can you take it anymore? Your heart must be racing. This is a full out declaration of guilt. What is your first action? Do you call the dean of students to report this long list of academic violations? Do you call a mental hospital to intern this dithering fool, who keeps on dallying onwards, butchering his usage of alliteration, throwing out grammatical terms at will to puff up his so-called reflective essay in a weak effort to appear smarter? You ask yourself one question, “Why?” Why could a student of such obvious overwhelming intelligence use his gifts for villainy? No reason, other than it is my sinful pleasure to see you squirm and bald. Your mind veers toward the religious and existential. Only Ivan Karamazov’s cruel god would plant this spiteful, scheming, yet innocent appearing pupil in your classroom. Of any of the millions of classes and teachers available, why you, why now, why this devious little Beelzebub?

Yes, the pointless rhetorical question, a dear favorite of mine. My tenth grade English teacher is currently relegated to a diet of hand-fed baby carrots and yams at the Anchorage Mental Institution due to these sinister literary devices. As a quick aside and explanation, his last coherent thought was to get as far away from any of my writing as humanly possible, even if it was to be banished to the land of Palin. So, not only am I a sociopath, but a successful destroyer of souls. Are you intimidated yet? Or are you a brave/stupid person and rather thinking, “This essay has completely and utterly no point. What will this student do with himself?”

This last paragraph is a true confession note, not that softball bull-crap I was manipulating you with beforehand. There are delusions of grandeur, and then there is destiny. I am about to reveal the latter. I will become the first Asian-American President of the United States of America. Now, before your guffaws or horrors overcome you, or before you sprint directly to the toilet and immediately excavate your insides through any orifice possible, let me tell you this – it will be done, and I have the means. I am a secret inheritor to multiple trust funds, now including Michael Jackson, and far more importantly, Billy Mays’ inheritance. What, you didn’t know the vastness of the OxyClean Empire? I will be bathing in money by the time I am in my thirties, and of course, like every worthy president, I will buy my way to the White House. Then you shall see the ancient’s ruminations, the prophecies come to fruition, a dark day.

There shall be a massive upheaval of government. It will be a dictatorship, and I will be the sole, autonomous ruler for life. I’ll most likely have an assassination attempt somewhere along the line by some misguided, jealous Democrat. It’ll of course fail, as bullets will bounce off of my impeccable muscles. Of course, as a kind humane person, I will grant leniency to the Democrat. Only three lions will eat him. All will be merry.

This is my forewarning to you. You shall have known the Great Ruler, The Phil. And when, my time has come for this life to pass, all the maidens will weep, and women will lay flowers at my gravestone.

Are you still here, coherent? Clean yourself up. You must be frothing at the mouth, furiously shaking your head in disbelief. I am just stating the facts, not embellishing anything. Now you understand why petty things such as quizzes, homework assignments and grades are beneath someone of my stature. I am your future leader, P.O.T.U.S., and eventually despot, theocrat and monarch. You may be holding a potentially valuable document, to be held one day on the same regard as the Declaration of Independence, The Voynich Manuscript, and the original copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher Stone. Next time I see you in class, I shall grace you with a signature, as worthy candidate. You may even be privy enough to have an early royal tax collection. And so, like all great dynasties ruled by great men: Nero, Caligula, and my personal favorite, William Henry Harrison, the empire begins.

Opening Chapter to a Book I'm planning to write

“You are a useless piece of shit!” A plate whizzes by my head. My mom forgot her meds again. She says she doesn’t need them. There’s a hole in the wall that says otherwise.

“Don’t have anything to say?” she yells. What’s there to say? Any response I have will piss her off more. I avert my eyes. This happens a lot. Inexplicable rage. I’m here, so I’m the target.

“Coward,” she says. Call me what you will, you’re the shit-mother of year. I don’t care what you have to say anymore. I just ignore her. She stomps out, frustrated.

Dad’s not home yet, probably at some bar drinking away his troubles. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were having an affair. I wouldn’t blame him. Before he gets home I gotta clean up. Hide the hole. I’ll slip the pills in her food. Some mood stabilizers, a sedative, anti-anxiety meds. A hodgepodge of drugs. I’ll throw a sleeping pill in there for good measure. Should keep her quiet for a while. Then when he gets home, we can pretend we are a happy, normal family.

You know, the funny thing is, I don’t feel anything after almost being bludgeoned. I don’t tear up; I’m not upset. I’m numb, used to this by now. At the very least, I’ve gotten quite good at dodging. I grab a broom and sweep up the mess. I tell myself, “This is why we can’t have expensive things.” My mom’s outside smoking a cigarette. She says it’s the only thing that keeps her sane. Sane? That’s a pipe dream. I have to start making dinner. As per the usual.

You know, I’ll make a special meal today. It’ll cheer everyone up. I’ll make our family’s favorite, chicken pasta. Start boiling the water. Put a pan on the stove and turn on the burner. I cut up the onions, slice up the chicken, dice up the mushrooms, and crush the garlic. “It’s a bit tiresome, but it’ll be worth it,“ I tell myself. Cooking the chicken, the vegetables and the noodles takes about half an hour. I have to set the table now. The whole process takes a bit over an hour.

Wonder why Mom hasn’t come back in yet. She probably went for a drive to cool off. Well that just means I have the house to myself. I go through her drawers and steal a cigarette. Light up. The smoke comes out in waves. It’s times like these, where I wish I were the wind. I could vanish at any moment, drift aimlessly among the clouds. I would be a gentle summer breeze, caressing the cheeks of young children. I would make leaves dance. I’d probably be a bit of a prankster. I’d flip old men’s comb-overs, sail spit back into people’s faces, and steal hats and scarves. But I’d never steal a kid’s balloon. If only I could simply fly away. If only.

I hear the front door open. Damn, she’s back. Take one last drag on the cigarette, then flick it out the window. My mom walks in with a smile, as if nothing had ever happened. She’ll never own up to her violence. She always acts like she has temporary amnesia, blocking out everything improper. Like I said, everyone likes to pretend that everything’s normal. But it’s not.

She walks in the kitchen, where I’m doing the finishing touches on the meal.
“Hey Cody, I brought food from the nice Italian place around the corner. You know, that cute place with the vines on the outside. Oh you cooked? Well never mind that. No need for this junk.” She picks up the pot of pasta, and dumps it in the trashcan.
“That took me over an hour to make!”
“Oh quit complaining, it’s not that big of a deal,” my mom retorted. I simmered with silent rage.
“Don’t you give me that look,” she snaps. “How dare you give me that look. I went out of my way, paid good money and got this great food for the family, and all you can do is throw a tamper tantrum? I ought to smack your ungrateful ass.”
“No, it’s nothing. Sorry for the attitude.” I walk slowly upstairs.
“That’s right, leave you worthless piece of shit.”
I’m screaming inside. I want to turn around and throttle her.