Kyle, nineteen years later
It is frustratingly hilarious….being an honest guy in this world of makeup, lies, and other deceptions. He can’t win for losing, he cannot help but freely open up about his past and his lack of experience. His lack of experience determines that any future experience will never happen. Said lack is wholly out of his control, only because he cannot even be a man whore who’d dick anything with a hole. Hookers won’t even touch him, despite being paid, he has tried.
Life has been a morbidly ironic ride thus far, it did start brilliantly…he had the world by the tail in a downhill drag… music skill, sports ability, academic wherewithal. Anything was possible! The thirstiness of a redneck changed everything. His life was demolished….in every sense of the word.
A three month coma, a rather poignant speech impediment, an awkward limp, a mangled right hand, etc, etc, all coupled with CP-like mannerisms. His mind is the only thing in tact. That fact alone is the sickest joke of them all. He knows where he was, what he lost, and where he stands at the current moment. He is a social pariah, the top of the admiration heap but the very bottom of any sort of attraction barrel. Yeah, he’s kinda cute and sometimes funny, but who wants to deal with any of the unknown bullshit that comes with a TBI? What good is admiration?!? He can’t feel it, it just awe and words at what he had no choice to do. It is a cheap facsimile of anything close to attraction. It is a bleak, lonely reality, truly.
What in the hell is the point of continuing such an existence?!? Curiosity, morbid curiosity…some choose to call it hope, he gave up any sense of hope quite a while ago. Such lies about hope only work when telling kids Santa will deliver presents if they behave. His twenties were continued recovery for the first half, catch up and fail the last half. The thirties, so far…trudging on, striving to make something happen. Hahahaha! It was said to be frustratingly, morbidly hilarious. He developed a very dark sense of humor, if only as a defense mechanism. He also writes, regularly, but never prose in the third person, apart from once.
Que sera sera.