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The Epitome of Beyond Loser
I’m on Facebook. It’s funny, especially since I don’t want to be on Facebook. That always happens, doesn’t it? If you think “I don’t want this to happen” it always does. Isn’t that called reverse psychology? I hate that. My mind is in the reverse usually. I’ll tell myself, “I will not eat that chocolate doughnut!” Before I know it, I have eaten that doughnut. I don’t know what to do anymore.
Actually, I do know what I’m going to do. I’m going to log off of Facebook.
That’s right, Adam. Now, back away from the computer. That’s a good boy. Do what you’re told and you might get a job and a girlfriend and not live with your mother anymore.
Maybe I should change the order of those three things. I don’t think girls date people that live with their mothers. Do employees hire people that live with their mothers? Hmm. I bet if I lost about twenty pounds they wouldn’t even ask about my current housing situation.
Dammit, I’m on Facebook again.
How can I help myself? I’m a loser. No. Scratch that. I’m beyond a loser. I’m the epitome of what it is to be beyond a loser. People do not like to be around me. I give new meaning to the saying “a face only a mother would love”.
The ironic thing about Facebook is, though it is addicting, it just makes you feel like more of a loser when you’re online. Since your whole social life is displayed in front of you, and, if you’re like me, the days worth of events barely take up the whole screen. Nothing has changed in the five minutes I was offline, except for my level of self-esteem.
C’mon Adam. You can do it. Just press that red X on the top right of your computer screen. There you go. Good boy, good boy.
I am a good boy. In high school, I always got decent grades, I ate most of my vegetables, I never missed curfew (not that I ever went out), and I rarely fought with my parents. I guess being bad isn’t a problem when you haven’t got anyone to be bad with.
Don’t even think about logging back on, Adam.
I sigh loudly. The sound fills up the entire room with a mixture of self-pity and self-loathing. I don’t even know how the two combine. One’s an acid and one’s a base. It’s a chemical reaction.
Gee, I know my chemistry. I passed that class with a B plus. I could have taken that in college. Looking back, I should have gone to college.
Now the room is filled with the sound of clacking of computer keys. That’s because I am slamming my head of the keyboard. Every crack seems to be speaking one word.
“Loser,” it sneers at me in it’s cold, metal voice. “Loser, loser, loser.”
It’s a curse. God just saw me growing in my mother’s womb and said, “This kid’s gonna be a loser for the rest of his life. He will be my form of entertainment.”
Then, he laughed.
I would have laugh at me too, probably, if I were someone else. I wish I was someone else. Preferably a jock or cheerleader. That way, I wouldn’t get my ass kicked so often.
“Adam, dear? Are you okay in there?” Mom calls from the kitchen. I smell chicken soup. It’s the only thing she knows how to make from scratch.
“No.” That’s my simple answer. It can answer any question in the fewest number of letters. I like the word. “No, no, no.” I use that word a lot in job interviews:
“Are you currently employed?”
“Have you ever been employed?”
“Do you own a home?”
“Are you married?”
I don’t even answer that one. I think the job interviewer can figure it out on his own.
“Aw, sweetie,” Mom starts, and I can hear her light feet on the carpet headed towards my room.
“What’s wrong with the world today?” she asks, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder when she enters the room.
“Everything,” I say without looking up. I keep beating my forehead.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that. You’re going to deform your brain that way.”
I give her the look. She knows that look. I give it to her when she says something stupid, obvious, or both.
She takes a deep breath. She does that when she thinks I’m being difficult. Maybe I am being difficult, but I have a good reason to. I twenty-eight. I live with my mother. That’s self-explanatory.
“Look, Adam. Things aren’t always going to go your way…” she trails off.
God is laughing at me again. I can feel it.
“Don’t let it get you down, though! You have to be tough. I know you can handle it. Just keep your chin high and walk with good posture.”
I roll my eyes. That really annoys her and that’s why I do it. I consider giving her the look too, but I don’t want to wear that out too soon. “Mom, how is posture going to get me a job and a life?”
“People will always judge you—”
“Thanks for those words of wisdom…” I cut in.
“Adam! Listen!” She looks angry so I quickly shut up. Mom is like the Incredible Hulk. She’s a perfectly lovely woman when she’s not mad at me. Then, she turns into a creature from hell.
She continues. “People will always judge you not matter what. That’s never going to change. That’s the way the world is. When you know who you are, the world will still judge you too, but you won’t care what the world says about you because you’ll be okay with yourself. Only you will know the real you and that’s what matters.”
“What if I know I’m a loser?”
“You’re not a loser, Adam. You’re special. You haven’t found your true calling yet.”
“How will I know what my true calling is?” I’m getting more and more skeptical of her advice. It seems both pointless and evident at the same time.
“You just know. I knew I loved math so I decided to become an accountant.”
“I hate math, Mom.”
“I know that honey,” she says with a tinkling laugh. “Listen to what I’m saying. We have to find something that you love to do.”
“I like computers…” I suggest, weakly.
Her eyes pop like corn kernels in a microwave. It almost makes me hungry. Am I a cannibal? I don’t want to eat her eyes, exactly.
Is God still laughing at me?
I’m almost laughing at me now.
“I’ve got an idea!” she exclaims, happily and types into the computer at the speed of light. She pushes me away and won’t let me see what she’s doing.
“It’s a surprise,” she states. “Actually, it’s a ‘surrise’. You broke the ‘p’ key when you were massacring your brain cells.”
I fail to find this funny. It’s more like sad. Not sad as in “boo-hoo sad”. It’s pathetic sad.
I creep towards her.
“Adam! Don’t even think of peeking!” She kicks out behind her and catches my leg. I fall to the ground with a thud.
Mom is a ninja sometimes. I don’t how she does that. I hope she passed it on to me though. That would be cool. Ninja genes.
She types a little longer and then finally presses the “Enter” key forcefully with her pointer finger.
“Okay,” she says, turning around, “You can look now.”
I do look. I am appalled by what I see.
“A dating website, Mom? A dating website?”
“Mhm!” she nods enthusiastically. “I wrote that you like morning dew and walks along the beach. Girls, eat that stuff up, y’know.”
“Mo-om!” I groan, drawing her name into two syllables. “I sound like a pansy!”
She’s not listening to me. I hate it when she does that. Instead, she scanning the computer screen hungrily. “A pansy that’s already got ten matches!”
“What?” I cry, “Let me see!”
“Hah! Gotcha, Adam!” she smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “Happy dating!” With that, she skips out the door.
I glance back at the computer screen, crestfallen. But then, an exclamation point pops up. I do have a match!
Her name’s Melanie. She likes morning dew and walks along the beach as well.
Maybe I’ve found a perfect match, maybe not. I glance at her page. She looks kind of pretty, except that her face is kind of squashed in like a pig. Then, I remember what my face looks like and she turns into a beautiful woman.
“She’s got to be the one!”
Now, I don’t feel the need to log onto Facebook anymore, but I’m pretty sure God is still wiping his eyes and chuckling merrily.