Why can’t I just be good at something? At anything? I could have started before the age of two, been a child prodigy because nobody knows what children are capable of until they try. I could have been on television, in magazines, the cute little child with extraordinary talent. All because of parents that started early and believed in their child. I could’ve won tournaments, made everyone talk about my ‘skills’ and ‘potential’. Potential’s such a funny thing. Because you never can truly gauge what it might be and if you don’t harness it you risk capping it beneath its true value. How many youth so full of potential never amount to anything? Well, every single one without the opportunities afforded the others, or additionally lacking something that conflicts with potential. How many “Mostly Likely to Succeed” titulars failed their voters? Too many, I do believe. But I reached certain measures of success by age two. That is, I had teeth and I could walk. How impressive relative to all my contemporaries. But my behavioral shadows were overcast. I only played by myself, and I could become frustrated easily. I threw temper tantrums, and was extremely defiant and resistant to change. Those issues were enough to handle, without my parents ever worrying about what more I could start to become.
Maybe if my temper tantrums weren’t so excessive, I might have had more friends. But even as I grew older my expressions of frustration alienated me from my peers. Since it always had to be ‘my way’, nobody wanted to play with me anymore. So, just as before, I continued to play by myself. I tried making friends, but they just wouldn’t stick around. Who knew that life could be so difficult at such a young age? I mean nobody wants to be alone, but what to do have to have things my way? It’s not that I didn’t have friends. Well maybe it is, if you’d more appropriately call them acquaintances. Because all of the sleepovers and birthday parties I was never invited to made for some lonesome times with ‘friends’.
So as I became more isolated from the world, my behavior got worse. At home it’s one thing, but school is an environment in which bad behavior is apparently less tolerable. Maybe the teachers wanted to demonstrate control of the classroom, and didn’t want children running home to tell their parents more about my disruptions instead of sharing what they had learned. Because then parents would contact the school, and inquire as to why their child wasn’t receiving the privilege of education that they deserved. And the teacher would be evaluated as unsuccessful and eventually be fired. After all, self-preservation is a requisite to maintain contractual agreements. That’s when it was decided that I would be sent away to a more disciplinary institution, which means I never really got to experience the formative high school years where more normal children teenagers learned many life lessons that I did not.
But I graduated anyways, and found a job afterwards. Wage labor was my life from the day’s start to finish. I worked harder than anyone, because I had energy and much to prove. I did not revel in wage labor, but sought furtherance in the form of additional duties that became additional responsibilities and were supposed to lead to titles and positions of authority. But it never happened. They said I wasn’t mature enough, that maybe I should move on to other things because it just wasn’t suitable for me at this time. Thanks, come again. So I reviled the wage labor until my frustrations boiled onto my co-workers. I had to leave, but not before they told me not to come back.
I eventually found other positions of labor from which to earn wages, and accumulated enough funds in my bank account to fix all my problems. Maybe if I just had someone else in my life it would be more tolerable. Maybe I would then be able to wash away everything with emotions of happiness, blissful days full of thoughts of a significant other who loved me. So I started with a tummy tuck, to reshape and firm my abs. I had already tried every instant ab workout, but they never worked for me. I must just be big-boned or something. I also got butt implants, because a butt lift would make me more appealing to the opposite sex. I then got a nose job, because I just can’t stand an imperfect nose. It’s so distracting! Then I got a face lift because I think wrinkles were starting to form in the corners of my eyes and mouth. And to finish off my new face, I got a chin implant to compensate my overbite and cheek implants to give me high cheek bones like all of the models. But the surgeries didn’t work out for me like they did for everyone else. I never found my significant other, never got the person of my dreams to come into my life. And people never complimented my purchased beauty enhancements. In fact, they thought and weren’t afraid to tell me that I was hideously disfigured. All of that work, and nobody yet to tell me I’m beautiful just like they did before the surgeries.
But all was not for naught, because I did get married to one of my co-workers. That’s about as romantic as it can get, right? Such exhaustive searches for people to marry models and athletes, that’s not for everyone. Why not reproduce with the closest of kin, from your own hometown? That was my fairy tale. We even had a child together, though it died in childbirth. Still-born. Such an overwhelming sight. Your beautiful child lying there, still, motionless, lifeless. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. You’re supposed to celebrate, to cry tears of joy, not floods of anguish. A parent shouldn’t have to bury their own child, and certainly not so near what was supposed to be a joyous celebration of life.
And years later here now I sit. I was found guilty for the murder of my spouse. My defense was supposed to be insanity, but it was not heard. So I was sentenced to 100 years without the opportunity of parole. And as I sit here, I start to wonder. Is it too late to start over? God, would you be willing to do for me what you have never done for anyone else in the history of mankind? Can’t you just erase my mistakes and let me try again? Please? I promise I’ll do it right next time. Just give me a chance. Don’t make me suffer. Just let me forget everything that has ever happened and be born anew. No regrets and no mistakes, just a chance please. Let me start over and live life just like everyone else. I promise I’ll do it right, next time.