|The Tralfamadorians (standard:drama, 2334 words)|
|Author: Anonymous||Added: Mar 31 2003||Views/Reads: 1815/1004||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A short story written in letter-form. It's about individualality|
To whomever it concerns: The Tralfamadorian's At this particular moment, I started writing this letter. At first, it wasn't a suicide note. . . It was like the seventy-fifth day of the year, fall was approaching as the world revolved. The day was sickeningly gloomy. The television presented some horrible news channel that was conveying a message that our cities will be struck with a heinous snowstorm; will It be measured in inches or feet? Other than that and the inevitable war in Iraq, the day was quite mundane. At this particular moment, I was listening to some music- Led Zeppelin, AFI, Bad Religion, NOFX, The Who, The Doobie Brothers, Pink Floyd, Unwritten Law, The Vandals, Anti Flag, Diesel Boy, Lagwagon, Propagandhi, The Eagles, Grateful Dead, Sex Pistols, Dr. Know, Dead Kennedy's, Rancid, The Cars, Merry Pranksters, Boston, Dropkick Murphy's, Black Sabbath, Nirvana, Hi Standard, Op Ivy, Frank Zappa, Jethro Tull, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc- At this moment, I was listening to 30-Foot Fall, actually. A rock band conveniently labeled “punk,” so that people like me know what to wear to the shows. Which reminds me, why do so many people strive at being unique and complacent through means of the clothes they wear and the music they listen to? I smoked some pot, listened to some music, I was relaxed and I. . . I was descending down the stairs getting ready to go to a concert downtown. To see NOFX. It was like eighteen months ago. I don't think death was on my agenda back then. My parents didn't even question me about going “out,” they weren't too concerned. They trusted me I guess. Also, when you're young, there is a moment when the teachers stop telling your parents you have potential but your hanging around “bad influences.” It's that fucking moment that the world decides you're irredeemable. Oh, you're still smart, and you still act the same, but everyone finally got sick of waiting for you to use all that promising talent to do what society wants. You can compromise your individuality- start acting like an adult, stop causing so much trouble, and start being a little dishonest about what you will and will not do, and pretend to like jobs you hate until you don't even remember you once hated them. OR you can stick to your beliefs that most people's music sucks ass, that sitcoms aren't funny and that money is a shitty measure of individual achievement. Because of that, you end up on the outside, trying to feel superior! “Poseur!” Some random dude yelled. “Poseur!” Someone else yells “Poseur!” Someone reiterates. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. We stood in line waiting for the show to start. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. At this moment, it was brisk outside and my nipples obviously didn't agree with the weather, not at all. There were a few gray ghosts in the sky, none were ominous though. The moon shone like a fingernail. His head was covered with six-inch long, black spikes. He wore a leather jacket, of course. He had other assorted apparel that one would expect a “punk” to wear. You know, spiked belts, necklaces, patches, etc. Things Sid Vicious wore before he died of a heroin overdose. A few yards ahead of me, this kid causes some ruckus and makes a few people laugh. A few others, naturally, get angry of course. I smirk a little bit because I happen to find a source of endless amusement that the most effective way to insinuate oneself into the gooey embrace of mainstream is by becoming a rebel. But what the fuck is a rebel? Sid Vicious was a rebel, but so was Rosa Parks when she sat in front of the bus. Click here to read the rest of this story (199 more lines)
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