e-confession - I've never really been able to take seriously people that pour their hearts out online. Theres just something I've got to say (hell, get off my chest) and if I can impart some infinitely wisdomic lesson in the process... awesome. If not, be entertained by a story of douche-baggery that knows no limit: A story of death, metal, racing gloves, and little red blue-tooth ear pieces.
The story starts with a friend of mine (Who, for the sake of having a name, shall now be called Jasper). Jasper received a Porsche Boxster for his first car. His daddy bought it for him. I say that with the utmost cynicism and yet ultimately hypocrisy, but we'll deal with that later. Daddy. Daddy. It was supposed to be a unique form of father-son bonding over fine automobiles. Instead, it turned into the worst case of materialism I've ever seen.
He bought treadless racing shoes. From Puma I think. They were these... feminine little white leather shoes designed solely (pun) to help moronic people feel better about driving moronic cars.
(Side note: I'm all for Porsches. But a Boxster is not a Porsche. To treat it like one is a lie to yourself. It's like owning an Altima but treating it like a Nissan GTR. Maybe not that extreme... but there's definitely a certain "gap" between Boxster and the next car up the "Porshuh" chain.)
The shoes weren't enough. He needed gloves. A blue-tooth earpiece the same color as the car (Red). An expensive as hell set of designer aviators so his hair could flow ever-so-slightly when he zipped around town with the top down.
We used to make fun of him. He was my friend, and I liked hanging out and doing stuff with him. But when the shoes came on... when his hand slipped into his glove... What happened? He turned into the biggest jack ass ever.
About 5 months after he got his car, I traded in my old Tahoe for a 350z. I paid for most of it through Scottish tax-free summer jobs with family members. The exchange rate kicked serious ass back then. But Daddy did help pay. It just irritates me to no end when someone asks what I drive (I mentioned my high school in an earlier post. It was all Houstonian River Oaks elite kids that drove stupidly nice impractical cars) and assume my Daddy dearest tossed me the keys one day with a pat on the back and a sparkle in his eye.
That's some stupid leave-it-to-beaver new bike scenario.
I became Jasper. I could spend twenty paragraphs talking about nonsensical bullshit that would end with "I became Jasper." I never bought blue tooth earpieces, or leather gloves and shoes, or anything even remotely as vain or narcissistic as that. Without a doubt though, I had my own version of that going on.
I once went 166 down Highway 59 during the middle of the day. I thought I was going to die.
I've over taken people on the wrong side of the road. Not like country roads where you over take tractors that are going 10 mph, I mean real city roads. Where the speed limit wasn't fast enough, I couldn't weave to get by, so I went the other direction.
I've raced a guy with neon lights on his car on the Houston 610 loop just for the hell of it.
I don't even know where to begin with Neon lights. Nothing says Ricer Idiot like a good set of pink strobe lights underneath your car.
I was involved in a race that ended with me bonding with a guy named Juan because we both nearly killed ourselves.
When you're a prick, and you care even less about the lives around you than your own life, and you drive a quick car, you live for the race. You live for the shot at humiliating another prick at his own game.
You drive up, and pull up next to him. You then accelerate, then slow back down to his speed. You can do this a few times if you want, it doesn't really matter. If he doesn't respond the first time, chances are, he's not an idiot and won't want to endanger anyone to take a self-worshipping ego trip. If he reacts at ALL: Honk. Then level out to his speed.
Honk three times.
And go.
On April 12th I hit another woman breaking from 90 in a 30. The accident was bad, it was the basis of my personal essay. I should of died, and frankly, if the accident had not happened, I would have eventually. And what's worse, is I probably would have had someone else in the car.
"On April 12th, those shoes were ripped off, the gloves yanked away, the ear piece destroyed, and my teeth kicked so far back in my throat I could chew my tonsils. It's been the best lesson I've ever had to learn."
I liked that line in my paper. It felt... real I guess. Hell, it was honest. I had become exactly what I spent months mocking. I did a really good impression of him too. I mocked him, and yet almost a year later, I was exactly what I had spent so long making fun of.
I am not my car.
It took me 6 months of intense introspective thinking and a near-death experience to realize that.
You are not your car.
You are not the huge diamond ring your lover gave you to make up for lack of personality.
You aren't your designer purse. Your designer sunglasses or your make up.
I lost sight of who I was and what I was becoming. As a result, many, many people nearly died.
I was once under the mind set that people like myself - Men and women that drove fast just for the jollies it provides - don't cause accidents. Old people do! Teens do! Women on the phone, applying eye liner, and blow drying their hair simultaneously do!
No.
Bullshit.
Wrong.
I do.
I did.
I would have caused more.
I'm just thank full that I was able to pull my head out of my ass, see myself for what I once was, what I had become, and who I am now.
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No idea how to end it, or wrap it up.
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Have you guys ever LOST SIGHT OF YOURSELVES in a material object?
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Sorry for the long post. Hope you didn't mind reading it.
Enjoy your weekends!
1 comment:
Your writing style is quite unique, but this honestly just sounds like the ramblings of a stoned person.
ADD much?
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