I’m writing this blog at the Homer Township Public Library. It looks exactly the same as it did when I was a kid. The inside is small and compact and gives off the same I’m bigger than everything here feeling you get when you revisit your grammar school.
Being here makes me feel like an adult kid. Sometimes it feels good to feel like a kid when you’re an adult but not at the Homer Township Public Library. It doesn’t give off any good kid feelings. Riding my bike gives off good kid feelings as it reminds me of playing and exploring and so on. Here I just feel like a full-grown child who is dependent on others because he can’t seem to get himself together.
I would write at home, but my dad will start talking to me about things I have no interest in or make me help out with whatever project he’s currently working on. I can’t do anything at my parent’s house without being bothered.
SIDE NOTE: I know I shouldn’t be living at my parent’s house at 29. I’m working on moving out. At least I’m not addicted to drugs or one of those asshole kids who likes to scream and fight and punch holes in the walls. I also don’t have any children. I’m not divorced. And guess what, I do the dishes.
At the dinner table, my parents sometimes talk about their co-workers’ children. Many of these kids (who are adults now) are more of a burden than me, which makes me feel somewhat better, but still makes me feel small because when it comes down to it, we are all adults who live with our parents.
Thankfully I write comedy and can hopefully use these painful home experiences in a story or something. So with that said, I have kind of an excuse for living with my parents. Right? Probably not. I went to see a therapist recently and came to the conclusion that I needed to move out and stop looking at my parent’s place as some sort of safe house that I can always run back to. I don’t need to reach that 30 and living at home status even if it may make me that much funnier or whatever.
The main reason that I’ve been having so much trouble in life is because of writing. I somehow got it ingrained in my mind that writing is all I want to do in life. I won’t be happy in any other professional field. I recently applied to six Creative Writing graduate programs and was denied acceptance to each one. It was awesome telling my parents the news, which they replied with, “Why were you denied?”
“They didn’t like my writing,” I said.
The conversation ended there.
I used to write movie reviews for The Homer Horizon newspaper. They paid me in free movie tickets. My mom would clip out the reviews and file them away in the plastic bin marked Jason. I think she liked seeing actual proof that I was actually writing. I could probably show them some other stuff or let them read my book, but I really don’t need them reading what I’m writing about. My parents and I don’t have that type of relationship. I don’t want them knowing too much about me. I think they will judge me and I don’t want to hear any of their judgements, which at 29 is a childish way to think, so I guess it’s kind of fitting that I’m writing this at the Homer Township Public Library and feeling like an adult kid because at this point in my life, that’s what I appear to be.
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