June 06, 2006

6/6/6 : 18

The shadows which perpetually cover my black linen sheets offered not their usual comfort. Alas, today is my birthday. I am eighteen today.

I crept from my bed towards the bathroom. My usual routine: poop, shower, towel off. I brush my pointed teeth. Mother bought a new flavor of toothpaste, Wintermint. It’s refreshing.

Eighteen. So I’m a man now. My reflection in the mirror looked older somehow: same dark ringed eyes, pale skin, dark hair. Boo! I saw a glimpse of a cursed soul hovering behind me. She was there to spook me. No good. I’ve seen too much evil in my damned life already. Go back to my father’s domain foolish ghoul. You’ll not scare the son of Satan on this special day.

My mother, always trembling and apologetic, offered a meek “Happy Birthday” as I left the bathroom. I just pout at her. She just wept and escaped to the kitchen, saying that she made my favorite breakfast for my special day: French toast with bananas and powdered sugar. It is my favorite. Although everything I eat tastes of ashes.

What to do with my special day? High school is over. It ended last week. No loss there. It’s not like I had any friends. They’re all dead. Everyone who talks to me dies. Everyone who looks at me dies. They usually jump off buildings or get run over by big black cars. My best friend, Dalyn, was eaten alive by cockroaches our sophomore year. They just swarmed out of nowhere and chewed him up, right down to his bones. Sucks.

I’d prefer to not put so many people in harm’s way, I guess. So lately my mother and I have been sitting around the house and seriously getting on each other’s nerves.

She says I should take a high school graduation trip to Panama City Beach in Florida. I said no. Again, misery follows me like the weeping mob stalking a fresh coffin. I went to MTV Spring Break two years ago. Big mistake. Some young ladies became possessed of an animus rage befit the denizens of Hell, not three girls named Mandy, Cindi and Christi. They tore at each other’s long hair, completely ripping the skin from their scalps. Their acrylic nails rendered one another’s scantily clad bosoms into red rivers of torn flesh and exposed silicone. Girls gone wild, indeed.

My dad sends me dreams, well, more nightmares, I guess. He speaks to me through the images of the world’s dead dictators and sociopaths. Last night the head of Hitler wished me a happy birthday (strangely enough in English). Then the head of Jeffrey Dahmer floated into the vision and told me I could never ever live up to my father’s expectations and that my devilish ascension into manhood would only shame our family! Like my dad is so bi-polar. Wish he’d just send a Hallmark card, maybe a little cash.

Sucks when your dad is el Diablo.

I guess I’m a little apathetic about the whole apocalypse thing. There’s a lot of pressure to do well, to succeed when your dad is so famous. But honestly, I haven’t done much in the eighteen years I’ve been here. Like I said, it feels like things just sort of happen around me.

When I was younger, I took to the weirdness by standing around all creepy and quiet. I did a lot of staring. Nannies would jump off the rooftop, all of them actually. The milkman hung himself on our porch when all his milk turned to blood. Family pets inevitably managed to turn themselves inside out. You think your pet makes a mess in the house? Let me tell you. Wait until you see Fluffy’s guts on the kitchen linoleum, then come talk to me, ok newbie?

But now that I’m eighteen, I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not really responsible for any of this crap. And I don’t want an apocalypse to destroy mankind. I’m kind of over it all. Maybe the cultists who read this blog will be upset with my decision. I mean, keep up your blood sacrifices and you rituals, my dad appreciates them. But, wow this is harder than I thought it would be.

I’m over it, all of it. Oh, and the 666 on my left shoulder? It’s not a “mark of the Beast” like all of you say it is. It’s just a unique birthmark, a freakin’ birthmark! Dr. Jenkins, my dermatologist, said so. Shame he had his eyes poked out by ravens. He had a nice demeanor about him.

I’m so sick and tired of everyone telling me who I am and what I’m destined for! This is going to be the crappiest birthday ever! Last week, Ronald Regan’s head told me (in another stupid dream) to expect a rain of fire and brimstone today. He also said a plague of rats would devour mankind and the four horsemen would ride at noon, at which time I’d ascend a throne of human bones and take my place as the scourge of humanity.

Whatever. I’m going to the mall.

9 comments:

FiL said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
FiL said...

Welcome back, Neil! Welcome back, oh, welcome back!!

I find it oddly comforting that the Son of Satan is as neurotic as the rest of us.

FiL

MEK the Bear said...

AHA!! I knew it! Mall's are really hellmouths aren't they?!

Hehe, love that story, what a great idea! You should really write a treatment for that, the antichrist sick and tired of being the destoyer of worlds and just wants to party like every other teen, finds love, gives up his evil plans and inadvertantly ends all evil on earth. Sweet!

P.S. Hope all your bruises have healed!

Anonymous said...

(Yawn) All of your stories have become trite, where is the creativity. (Yawn)

Gayest Neil said...

hah!

bryce said...

Only douchebags leave (yawn) negative anonymous comments (yawn) on people's blogs.

Smooch!

Aaron said...

But you don't look a day over seventeen!

Foxy said...

I think Anonymous is one of my old teachers at NYU. It could be any of them.

Mike P. said...

Great premise.
Could be a great
"Malcolm In the Middle"
meets
"Charmed" type show.
I like "Charmed" btw.
So that's no slight by any means.

I'd take Mek's advise and write up a treatment.

Seriously.

Oh and to "anonymous"...

WhatEv choach...