The Ranting of a Closet Cynic
By Mariah, age 15, Minnesota
Walking upstairs, I notice the Christmas tree standing dormant in front of the living room windows. The plastic artificial evergreen remains idle with its adornment of cracked candy canes, a slightly grotesque scene. The counterfeit tree establishes a gloomy aura that incinerates happiness upon its attempted passage into my fiery home. The tree's volatile existence remains hidden as the snow begins to fade away, replaced by sporadic brown patches of Kentucky bluegrass. 'Tis proof of my procrastination.
I don't have any aspirations in life, however, if in some rather odd way you, for some reason, feel better about yourself due to my recent displays of cynicism. I consider this an indirect form of misanthropy on my part.
I have to admit this isn't my first attempt at writing a book; however, none of my "books" seem to advance past the pamphlet stage. I have already completed the task of embellishing the God-awesome title of this book with quotation marks to signify that, if all else should fail, as it obviously has, this literary unit shall end up morphing into a short story, thanks in part to my horrid time management skills.
You may thank me personally for not handwriting this book, due to my cryptic usage of cursive "writing" that is only readable by myself and a few elite others that were gifted with magnificent peepers. I accept gratuities in many forms, if you are in a generous mood. If you feel like sending fan mail, I accept that too. However, for safety precautions, refer to the phone book.
If, for some strange reason, you believe I come off as arrogant, selfish, or egotistical, your thoughts are simply misconstrued. I like to think of myself as the non-existent God's gift to the world. Yes, I've had some faults with religion. I've tried, yet have not failed, by any means.
Heaven just isn't ready to handle someone like me, but once I lock-pick those pearly gates, I shall be hanging out in the clouds ... possibly ... if it occurs to me upon being placed in my death box that there certainly is such a destination.
As I write this musing, my fellow comrades are engaging in a conversation that involves the comparison of cup sizes and bosom shapes. I find it hard to concentrate on MY story when THEY won't shut their traps.
Now, where was I? ... Ah, yes, hats.
I like hats. Hats are mighty fine. They have a way of keeping your head safe from possible infernos caused by nuclear fallouts, and they protect my rather large cranium from acid rain, flying monkeys, and the occasional sphincter-less fowl.
*runs off to steal candy from small children whilst humming a random Bob Dylan song (or Cat Stevens - can't decide)*
I am still stuck in this closet, yet I have no intentions of leaving this, possibly tentative, wardrobe receptacle, I guess one could call it.
I ... I ... I will try and camouflage my cynical identity by wearing my optimist mask to portray myself as a convivial figure. It takes a vast amount of physical and mental effort to cast a veil upon my cynicism to divert your attention to my fictitious displays of optimism. Yet, for some reason, my original acts of randomness and the ability to "connect" irrelevant paragraphs still remain solid, in my opinion.
Now, I must admit I do try extremely hard to keep intruders out of my closet. You know the type ... They're always trying to figure out what's wrong with you and how they can give you advice since they feel morally obliged to do so - this used to be me. However, ever since I have called this closet of mine "home", I have made good use of my time spent in this coffer by gathering my thoughts and evaluating my life.
*crumples up paper and throws it on floor*
Who am I kidding? To 'ell with evaluations and expectations, I want enlightenment!
I do not know what life has in store for myself. However, if I had the opportunity to find out, I'd probably be stuck somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania, near the security clearance while my flight takes off without me, somehow losing my baggage in the process. I do feel the need to be enlightened in some way, though, but not solely, by any means. I find that enlightenment is emitted from one human to another somehow ... It's hard to explain.
This poses a rhetorical question: Are my attempts to avert your attention from my cynicism to my potentially existentialist views on life working?
*picks up paper; uncrumples paper; struggles to read own handwriting on paper; throws paper on floor; rinses and repeats*
