"You got any Ammonium AD? I gotta take a dump like you wouldn't believe!"
I see a pimply fat face with red hair sticking straight up reflecting in my computer monitor. I turn around and see one of the losers from across the hall: Alex Potsfield. The last name is very fitting: when he isn't squeezing puss, he's smoking pot to forget about how awful his life must be. I guess people like Potsfield don't need anybody. They just need their pot and their alcohol.
You know what?
That sounds like a good plan.
Not the pot and alcohol, well... maybe... but what I mean is this: Not relying on people means people don't get to rely on you. It's just you, and nobody else. Who says you need someone to make your life worth living? Don't you make your life worth living?
I like that.
"Dude, I got a watermelon poking out, you got any or not?" Potsfield asks me.
"Potsfield, actually, while I got you here, is there anybody in your life that makes your life worth living?"
"Dude, turtle head... poking... out."
"Never mind," I say, "And no, I don't, so get lost."
As Potsfield leaves, I go back to typing my essay. But, if I had to choose which person makes my life worth living, I guess it would be... I don't get it... I mean... Jenna, my neighbor... she used to tell me Potsfield was cute. I guess she has a low threshold for eligible guys. Come to think of it, I've actually never seen her go out on a date. And she's pretty and cute and funny and smart and all that great crap. She's single too. And she's not an "I'm-actually-dating-a-guy-but-he's-not-here-at-the-bar-with-me-right-now-and -I'm-really-thirsty-and-horny" single... she really is single. But I've never seen her go out on a date. Then again, it's probably better that she not go out at all, then go on a date with a retard like Potsfield. Enough of this, back to my essay.
The person who makes my life worth living has got to be...
God! I can't believe she finds him cute.
You shouldn't just say someone's cute just because you want to want someone. That's so phony.
The person who makes your life worth living should first be worthy of that position.
I delete that. It sounds cheesy.
You shouldn't want to want someone just so you have someone in your life who supposedly makes it worth living.
I delete that. Too complicated.
You should make your own life worth living.
There.
But I have a feeling my teacher isn't gonna like that. I need to actually write about the person that supposedly makes my life worth living. Maybe Jenna will help me. She's a much better writer than me, anyhow. I get up and walk across the hall. I knock on the door and Jenna opens her door.
"Hey," she says, "What's up?"
"Can you come in here for a sec?"
"Okay," she says, "What's going on?" She follows me back to my room.
"Jenna, can you just sit on my bed?"
"Why?"
"'Cause I need to write a paper."
"And you just need me to sit here while you write?"
"Yeah."
"So what's going on?" she asks.
"I'm trying to write this damn paper for my stupid Intro to Creative Writing class where you're supposed to be all descriptive and crap. It's so phony."
"And you don't like that?"
"No, I hate it. I hate my class and I hate this paper. I want to write dialogue where people bicker back and forth like in real life. I don't want to describe how it feels to bicker back and forth with people. That bitch teacher gave me a D on my first paper, where I described what it felt like when I broke my arm playing football with some friends of mine six years ago. I said it hurt like hell. She told me to be more descriptive. All right then, I said, it hurt like freakin' hell. I said that in front of a class of thirty or so people, too." Jenna laughs at that. "And isn't thirty people like a lot of people for a writing class? How are you supposed to have productive workshops where you tell everyone else how much their papers suck if you're doing it in groups of five? You're going to feel like an schmuck doing it. It's so damn phony."
"Okay, okay, okay... I get it," she says, "So what's this paper supposed to be about anyway?"
"I'm supposed to write a paper about the one person in my life who makes my life worth living," I tell her, "It's not a paper about someone I love like in a I-wanna-screw-their-brains-out-kinda-way, but in the kind of way where they make my problems seem... well... non-existent."
"Maybe you should write about your parents."
My parents, okay, hmmm... parents. Parents. Parents. Hmmm... I don't think that my parents are the people in my life that make it worth living. Don't get me wrong, they're not horrible parents or anything, but the thing was, we never connected except in a you're-family-so-I-love-you-kinda-way. The love between us was just family love, love that comes automatically with family. I'd lay down in front of a car for my father and I'd take a bat to someone's head if they looked at my mother wrong, but does that mean they make my life worth living? My parents gave me life, but isn't it up to someone else to make that life they gave me worth living?
I delete that section and tell her it's not working. "What about CJ?" Jenna suggests.
My older brother CJ has worked for about seven dot.com start-ups in the past two and a half years. So what makes CJ's life worth living? His job. His cubicle. His suit. His briefcase. His cell-phone. His Palm Pilot. His fake enjoyment of life. What a loser. What a damn sell-out. What a phony. I hope I never become like that.
CJ's also dating some Asian supermodel named Ming something-or-other who probably throws up her sushi lunch every day of the week to keep under the magic ninety-eight pounds.
"Nah," I say. I delete the whole section about CJ and his stupid, skinny girlfriend, Ming.
Now Jenna is skinny, but not too skinny, and nowhere in the vicinity of fatness. And I've never seen her running off to throw-up after scarffing down cheeseburgers in the cafeteria with me. She's also not pretty, but pretty cute and pretty nice and pretty beautiful. But she definitely ain't pretty. CJ's girlfriend, now she is pretty... that's why she's a model. All I know is that looks don't make life worth living.
Jenna could never be a model. And that's what makes her so much hotter than CJ's girl. The fact she's good-looking without having to look like a certain way. She's good-looking in all the ways.
"If you're talking about your parents and your brother, you should talk about your childhood. I mean, you certainly had a better childhood than I did," Jenna says.
Jenna had all the clichés and all the stereotypes of a god-awful childhood that you see in the fake Oscar-winning movies and TV movie-of-the-weeks. Abusive dad, drunk mother, run-away older brother, slut sister, yada yada yada. Jenna's only made it as far as she has because of herself. Nobody else. Not that asshole, that bitch, that goner, that other bitch. But because of herself. She didn't need anyone. So why do I?
If there's no one worth having in your life, is there something wrong with that? Especially if those people make your life so bad, you wish you weren't living?
"I'll be right back," says Jenna, "I'm just going to the bathroom."
So why do I need someone? Why can't it just be me? Like it was for Jenna. It actually has just been me for eighteen years. Yeah, I had the family and everything, but I always wanted to rather be with me. Just me. Regular old me. Do I really need anyone to be there with me if I'm happy and joyous by myself?
This is really tough. I'm going to fail this paper so badly.
"HEY!"
I jump out of my seat and see Phoebe. She's wearing shredded jeans with at least six holes in them, along with a T-shirt that would be too big on a five-year-old brat. She's also wearing a Hopkins LAX cap backwards, allowing her front bangs to stick straight up in the air, with long pig-tails hanging out the back. She is the epitome of phoniness. I can't believe this is the kind of girl Jenna tells me she is jealous of. She has nothing to be jealous of. Phoebe ain't a girl; she ain't a woman; she's an object. And not because we guys see her as that way, but because she puts herself out like that.
"Hey, there," she says to me, probably not even knowing my name, despite the fact we've met like six hundred times.
"Phoebe... how ya doin'?"
"Is Jack around?" Jack's my pimp-daddy RA. Well, that's what he calls himself. I sure as hell wouldn't call him that. I just thought you'd want to know the nickname he gave himself. Isn't that ridiculous? Giving yourself a nickname? You know what, I want you to call me The Hammer. That's right, The Hammer.
"Haven't seen him all night," I, the Hammer, say. "Can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"What person makes your life worth living?"
"That's easy it's..."
"Don't say Jack."
"... Jack."
"Get out."
"But..."
"Get... out..."
Phoebe leaves.
Look, Phoebe ain't the greatest girl in the world. But she deserves better than Jack who's probably out with some freshman right now, telling her, "College is a time for experimentation." What's the lesson for good old Phoebs? It's better to have nobody than to have someone not worth having. Yeah, maybe that's what I should write in my paper.
It's better to have nobody in your life that makes it worth living, than to have someone it ain't even worth living your life for, especially if they're a pot smoker or a pimp daddy. Even if your life is crap, don't make it worse by surrounding yourself with crap in a vain effort to make it better or to make your life worth living. Why? Because... it's... phony.
Ah damn, that's so freaking depressing. Is that really the answer? Do I really believe that?
Jenna comes back in. "Hey," she says, "Did you figure out who makes your life worth living?"
"No."
"Well, I was thinking about it, and I came up with something."
"What's that?" I ask.
"The person who makes your life worth living is the person you go to when you have a problem. Regardless of what the problem is, you go to them. Hard problems, easy problems, you go to them. Whether it's because you're depressed about being single, or in trouble because your car broke down, or you're having writer's block..."
The person who makes your life worth living makes you remember why your life is worth living, even when things are bad. And bad means so many different things. It means big things and it means little things. And that person who makes your problems seem... well... non-existent, regardless of size, is the person who makes your life worth living.
Because they remind you, that above all problems, your life is still just your life and it's the most important thing of all.
"Hey, Jenna?"
"Yeah?"
"You wanta go get some coffee?"
"Now?"
"Yeah. Just give me a sec."
I delete my entire paper before writing one word to answer the question I've been plagued by all night:
Jenna.