I hope, one day, I will be able to fart like my mother. Her unabashed, brazen trumpets of liberty echoed through out the halls of my childhood, an atomic exaltation no one would dare call a sigh, or a toot. Our matriarch, our alpha female, asserting herself as the light and guidance to my sisters and I with this display of not giving a shit.
Personal liberty, financial independence, these are the goals most parents in the USA have for their children. Contribute to society; pay taxes into a social security one may not benefit from, reproduce with whoever will have you. Go to school to obtain the most expensive piece of paper you’ll ever frame, where it will hang on your wall to mock you, as you work in a completely different field trying to pay back all those loans you took out to buy that piece of paper. This, as s quasi-middle class and relatively talentless American, is what I have been raised to expect from my life. It’s what I’ve accepted, was warned about, and trained for. However, I was unprepared for the lonely and horrifying uncertainty of the mid-twenties, the claustrophobia one feels when living alone, a lead anchor in your stomach that drops when you enter your dark, empty residence. I feel, to compensate, my brain developed a tape worm; I have an intense lust to learn about everything, learn how to do everything, to travel everywhere. My mind is hungry, and can never be satisfied. The Weltschmerz, the longing for I-don’t-know-what.
My mind floats; my thoughts swirls in a black fog of confusion, dissatisfaction, and futility; I feel as if I’m climbing toward the top of a mountain, and each time the slope levels out, I find more peaks raising above me. This black fog hangs dormant in the corner of my mind, watching, waiting, threatening. So I must leak it out, I must share, and drain this poison from me, for I feel the abyss looking into me, and I refuse to look into it, as I first must learn the dominantly proud flatulence of my mother.