Cold Civil War, Chapter 1

         Regardless of whether or not you will keep an open mind, this is my story.
         By the time you are through with me today, you’ll either think I’m either one of two things.
         You’ll think I am a narcissistic, cowardly, whiny little bitch, the type that the opinionated insecure degenerates of this world frown upon in order to compensate for their lack of social or intellectual prowess.
         Or, you’ll think I am a hero, because I had the guts to show the insecure degenerates of the world how a “society” designed to encourage hatred and divisiveness made them insecure degenerates in the first place.
         You’ll either hate my guts, or you’ll admire my courage. Hell, you may even empathize with why I did what I did.
         You’re going to take my words and apply your cognitive bias to portray them as half-truths, but that’s okay. I accept that. Right now, I’ll bet about half this country thinks I’m crazy, and the other half thinks I’m a genius. In all honesty, they’d both be right.
         So let’s get right down to it. I’m talking to you today because I snapped. And because I snapped, I made the most insane decision of my entire life.
         I didn’t do it to make money, although soon, I may be poised to make a fortune.
         I didn’t do it to be famous, although millions now probably know who I am.
         I did it because I wanted to change my life.
         I did it because I was tired of fighting myself, because I was tired of existentially solving all of America’s political and social problems, and because I was tired of asking myself a question I asked myself every single day:
         How do you want to be remembered?
         I had to answer this question. I had to find meaning in it. Unfortunately, in order to answer it, it drove me to psychosis.
And the result was incredible.
         I inspired people. And I pissed a lot of people off.
         And most importantly, I inspired me. As a result, my internal existential battles came to an end, and I realized how and why life is worth living.
         How do you want to be remembered?
         If you asked me this question a few weeks ago, I’d tell you I’d be remembered as nothing. Nada. Zip. People considered “something” in this world are either filthy rich, have won a championship or prestigious acting award, or were the Draconian dictator of a nation or some peacemaker immortalized in urban legends or fairytales. It’s all a byproduct of a vain, cruel world that will have zero sympathy for you if you fail to adapt to it or accept it.
         If I didn’t become “something”, I’d be a footnote.
         A statistic.
         “Nothing”.
         And I’d be damned if I let it happen.
         A few weeks ago, my daily life consisted of three tedious, dull 8-hour elements. Element one was work, where I did nothing but stare at a computer monitor and breathe and speak into a headset. Element two was at home, where I stared at a television screen and laptop monitor while navigating through a smartphone. Element three was sleep, where I occasionally had nightmares about recycling and repeating the first two elements the next day.
         Basically, I was wasting of the prime of my life and the years I had an opportunity to be the person society expects me to be in front of television and computer screens. Half the time, I had no choice but to stare at those screens. The other half, I guess you can say, was a choice. And as each day passed, the time when my youthful dreams, ambitions, and potential die a slow and painful death came closer.
         I’m 28 years old. If I truly were an “underachiever” was back then, imagine how profound it would be ten or twenty years from now if I hadn’t done what I did?
         I’d be what society defines as a “failure”.
         And who wants to be remembered that way?
         How do you want to be remembered?
         Any innocent child raised by a stable, well-to-do family is asked that question in their youth at the same frequency as the Earth rotates around the sun: daily. Family members, friends, and teachers asked me that question a million and one times, and although it was painfully annoying, I had no choice but to deal with it with grace and humility. In other words, I had to sit down, shut up, and answer the question, otherwise I risked “disrespecting my elders”, one of the worst transgressions one can commit, according to my parents. The problem is, most of these “elders” are know-it-all pricks that unrepentantly guilt-trip you if you haven’t achieved what you set out to be by a certain age. That angers me. The majority of them are just stroking their egos. They don’t give two fucks about you.
The only person that should care what I’m doing with my life is me. But alas, people seem to find their most comforting source of entertainment and the zenith of their personal validation in the blatantly biased and unambiguous judgment of their fellow humans. Unfortunately, those at the forefront of this theater of mass gossip are your family, friends, and colleagues, more so than complete strangers. They judge every move you make at every moment of every single day, and then you feel forced into a position where you need to do something important and meaningful so others will be proud of you and not embarrassed by you.
         So until about 15 to 20 years after you leave college, “society”, or the shallow, self-serving hacks in the government, media, and communal social circles that attempt to dictate the course of people’s lives in order to feel better about themselves, say you’re “supposed” to have done two things: decide what you want to do with your life, and do what you want to do with your life. To translate, in the parlance of societal norms, you need to have a lucrative career at some Fortune 500 company, become a doctor, lawyer, or teacher, or plan to run for president. Oh, and make at least six figures.
         And if you don’t, you’re a waste of talent. A fucking loser!
         These wastes then become one of two things: a psycho, or a fuck-up. Or something like that.
         I already was a total fuck-up.
         And by societal logic, I was halfway to becoming a total psycho.
         It’s all bullshit, to be honest. But then again, it isn’t. And this constant roundabout dance of behavior, custom, and preconceived notions is a prerequisite for living in America in the 21st century. It drove me to madness.
         My name is James Edwards, one of the most generic, bland and boring names imaginable. To my family, I’m just James. To my friends and co-workers, I’m just “Jimmy”, or “Edwards”. My name is not mentioned in the same breath as Jesus Christ, Abraham Lincoln, or even Adolf fucking Hitler. People remember those names, for better or for worse. Two hundred years from now, when I’m a pile of ashes or decayed organic matter rotting in a box six feet underground, I hope someone; especially my great, great grandchildren (if they even exist) know who I was and what purpose I served on Earth, even if they never met me or got to know me. My only hope is that when they grow up, my name is not mentioned in the same breath as Hitler, especially now that I’m an internet sensation or some shit because I went on a pretty epic rant that happened to be caught on camera, and then a few days later, I went to some extreme lengths to make a political statement. And it angered a lot of people. It’s really astounding how, in today’s technologically-dependent world, how quickly your life can change so profoundly.
         How do you want to be remembered?
         I wanted to be James Matthew Edwards, a good, hardworking, decent human being from New Jersey that leads a normal, anonymous life. Instead, by pure dumb luck, I became some comedian’s punchline, and now I’ll never live anonymously.
         You know what? I guarantee one person in this world mentions me in the same breath as Hitler, and will remember me from her grave: my former supervisor, the quintessential sociopathic bitch. Her name is Michelle, but she may as well be named Attila the Hun. Or Lucifer. Or whoever the most evil woman in history is.
         I hate her. I really fucking hate her. But I will discuss her later.
         Before all this nonsense occurred, I worked in a call center for a major financial investment firm, one that has been investigated on numerous occasions for fraud, money laundering, and unethical business practices. You may have heard of it. It’s called Richard George. Millions of greedy Americans have been brainwashed by their phony propaganda in TV commercials, magazine and newspaper ads, and customer testimonials on the internet, yet they continue to entrust their life savings to these cowardly swine. While the executives of this multi-national conglomerate get paid more money than God and hide their faces in boardrooms, waterfront property and country clubs in the Hamptons, and million-dollar yachts, I got paid a poverty-level wage to placate the angry, spoiled, entitled rich brats that the executives extort money from and pretend to give a shit about. Society refers to this job as “dead-end”, a term that the chiefs of the gossip and judgment police gleefully use as a self-serving tactic to obscure their own shortcomings. So you’re probably wondering, why did I continue to work for this cesspool of corruption and phony compassion when I knew I was being fed pennies? Because at least I took home a fucking paycheck every two weeks. Period! Not that it mattered much; each check, on the day I received it, was blown on bills and student loans, with only a minimal trace of green that I could spend on food, clothing, and fun remaining. I could only dream of earning a paycheck that allows me to sit in a boardroom, sail on a yacht, and own a riverfront mansion with a spectacular view of New York City.
         Perhaps I was being punished for not attaining a lucrative living despite my best and sincerest efforts. I graduated summa cum laude with a degree in communications from a pretty prestigious college with a 4.0 GPA. Typically, one with such qualifications could be an executive producer for a small indie film, a junior public relations manager for any firm that was hiring, or the technical director of some PBS kiddie show. This is what I was “supposed” to be, but here’s the brutal truth: all a bachelor’s degree earns you nowadays is a framed piece of paper you may as well wipe your fucking ass with! Bachelor’s degrees don’t get you prestige or recognition anymore. They get you millions of years of debt, a shit job, and a choice: more education and debt, or a lifetime of stress, anger, and adversity. Most college graduates like me cannot give up shit jobs because of financial obligations that cripple the most honest men. Student loans. Car payments. Car insurance. Cell phone. Credit card. TV. Breathing. Such is life in America these days, I guess. The youth of this nation is scammed into thinking they are enriching themselves and creating opportunities to establish a prodigious life through higher education, but what they really get is a future in which you remain financially dependent on your parents when you have children of your own. And the risk of losing this “life” greatly outweighs the reward. A sick joke executed to perfection. You’re an asshole, but well played, America.
         And that’s another thing. Part of the reason why I snapped is because of a myriad of preconceived notions I had about America, some true, some false. You may not believe me when all is said and done, but I love this country as much as I love myself. But I am very, very angry at it, and one big reason why is because I had recently discovered that one of the greatest American values is a lie. A value instilled in just about every American, whether naturally born on the Homefront or arrived by boat, is that if you work hard enough, and you are willing to continue to work hard, you can attain anything you want in life. What you really should be told is if you work hard enough, you can attain anything you want if and only if you know the “right” people. You can only do what you’re “supposed” to do if you have a friend of a friend of a friend, or if you are born into some rich family that will bestow upon you some powerful job even if you are dangerously unqualified. Hard work doesn’t pay off these days, and many people don’t understand that.
         Part of the job description of a University president is giving well-wishes to graduates at commencement ceremonies; you know, those scripted little tidbits of good lucks and I’m proud of all of yous that presidents robotically recite while feigning bright, wide smiles. What those scripts really should say is: “Students, I only have one thing and one thing only to say to you today that you will remember the rest of your lives: You’re all fucked. Good luck!”
         How do you want to be remembered?
         The truth is, despite what I’ve been through these past couple of weeks, I had not yet decided what I want to do with my life, and it was one of the few things that drove me to wake up daily and tolerate a job I hated for eight hours. Consequently, it caused me to daydream and goof off at work. I didn’t go to college and bust my ass to sit in front of a computer screen with a headset on and earn as much as a damn high school kid working fast food earns! One of my goals in life is to travel the world and write a novel about my experience, and I want that novel to be the greatest damn book ever written. I want it to change the way people think about their lives, and I want it to challenge the societal establishment into change how it operates. I want people to be aware of how the powers that be in the world, a vast collection of a ruthless, despotic group of leaders bent on hegemonic domination no matter the cost, are slowly and methodically dismantling our civil liberties and rights, and how we are all brainwashed into thinking that the work that they do is actually for our benefit. I want to inspire people to take risks, travel somewhere they’ve never been before, do something they’ve never done before or do something they’ve always wanted to do, and understand there is more to the world than just TVs, smartphones, the news, celebrity gossip, microwavable dinners, and mundane everyday routines. I want people to stop being conceited, vain prototypes of a repulsive, decadent society.
         And before I could even put pen to paper, I think I may have already done so.
         While I was bored at work one Tuesday morning, waiting for the next round of filthy rich swine to call and complain about the pennies of interest they somehow felt they were being gypped out of, I planned a few potential routes for a solo road trip out to Chicago, routes that would take me to every tourist trap, avoid highways and tolls, and make the long, arduous journey to a great American city more picturesque and enjoyable. Why drive some boring interstate highway when you can aimlessly drive back roads to see sights you’ve never seen before? Hell, what if, instead of going to Chicago, I went all the way to Canada? How much different would Canada look than America? Would I see ghettos, abandoned shopping malls, and angry, unfriendly drivers? How confused would I be when I see road signs in kilometers per hour instead of miles? Would I ever want to go home?
         If you take such an endeavor solo, society labels you as “crazy”. I don’t see it that way at all. The main reason I planned this trip is because I recently broke up with my girlfriend, Dana, and to put it as simply as possible, I needed the solitude. This cunt nearly ruined my life. For five years, I blew money I didn’t have wining and dining her, buying her lavish gifts, and taking her on day-long trips to the mall where we shopped at only stores of her choosing. On top of all that, I had to deal with her constant whining, bickering, and ranting on just about everyone and everything, most times for multiple hours. She unrepentantly placed this insufferable burden on me, and if I ever dared question it, she’d threaten to commit suicide to my face. How could I have been so fucking blind to her flaws? Well, for one thing, when she wasn’t a whirlwind of misplaced anger or glib irrationality, she really was a good person. She was polite, smart, and sometimes funny. We genuinely did have good times. She’d treat me to ballgames, take me to the bar to watch a sporting event and pick up the tab, and even go to the shore with me despite her not being a beach person. And I was willing to overlook her flaws because at first, she displayed genuine interest in me and was actually willing to listen to me vent to her if I had a bad day. At some point, those good times slowly started dissolving from irreplaceable entertainment moments into unavoidable therapy sessions. When your friends and your entire family exhibit a total dislike of your significant other, and then you start to feel the same way, ending the relationship, no matter how difficult or easy it may be from a mental standpoint, is the only logical solution.
         Because I no longer had to blow money on this failed relationship, I had the personal and financial freedom to take a vacation on my terms and my terms alone. Dana hates going on vacations. I love them. Whenever we did travel together; I’m sorry, I mean, when I “dragged her” to faraway destinations, she was the one that had to plan the trip’s itinerary without any input from the person that funded it: me! Here’s a list of Dana’s hobbies: watch TV, rant about politics, and gossip about everyone and everything. She and Michelle could be best friends. In the dictionary, there should be pictures of both of those cunts next to the word “bitch”.
         This trip was supposed to take place a couple of weeks from today, but clearly that is not happening. My “vacation” already happened. And it was more than just a vacation. Purely put, it was a journey that changed my damn life. For this excursion, not only was its purpose a means to forget Dana, but a mental retreat from the harsh realities of this world, and the harsh realities of my life; a life full of missed opportunities, regret, and fond memories long, long passed.
         So one Tuesday morning, I finally decided on a route for my trip. I was going to go to Canada. Then, I scribbled down an itinerary on a blank piece of paper. In those moments, I was exultant and idyllic, a veritable state of Nirvana that only comes to those that think positively and dream for better things.
         Until…
         In the most blissful moment of my daydream becoming reality, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder.
         Startled, I looked back, and there was Michelle. The sight of that late thirty-something dirty blonde with a face that accentuates every crevasse, curve, and jut of her skeleton made my heart stop.
         “Why are you on the internet?” she sternly asked, her voice inflecting higher with each syllable. “What’s your explanation for using the internet on company time, which you know is violation of several of Richard George’s employee conduct policies?” She sounded so formal, like a judge reading legal mumbo jumbo in court. What else is new, I thought. Yes, I shouldn’t have been using the internet on company time, but every single soul in that entire fucking office does the same thing. Why was I the only one held accountable for it?! Michelle plays favorites like a gambler plays cards, and treats those she doesn’t like with petty indignation. Around the office, she is notorious for shopping online during company time with her best friend in the office sitting by her side, a representative named Kacie that is essentially a carbon copy of Michelle, except she is fifteen times sexier, and her face actually looks natural. Michelle lets Kacie get away with everything, even rudely berating and chastising customers while on the phone. God forbid I did the exact same thing, though. Other than my lapses in attention and judgment, I never did anything to harm Michelle, so I don’t have a damn clue why she treats me like I killed her fucking first born. In the moment she caught me surfing the internet, it didn’t matter if I had an excuse or not. This insecure, arrogant former lawyer was about to channel all the bitterness and resentment from her previously failed career, combine it with the abhorrence she reserves in her heart just for me, and vociferously unleash it.
         As her hazel eyes, bloodshot by anger, fixated on mine, my mind strangely began thinking about my childhood upbringing, and how grateful I am that I haven’t turned out like that conceited curmudgeon Michelle. Although ironically, after the last couple of weeks, I came close.
         How do you want to be remembered?
         My father, Douglas, passed away of cancer a few months ago, and goddamn do I miss him. He was the toughest, strongest, and bravest man I’ve ever known. He was a tough but fair beacon of all that is righteous and genuine about humanity and the average American. He never, ever belittled me, no matter how angry he may have got. And his temper was ferocious. He would tell you the truth bluntly to your face. He would rant and rave and punch out walls, and he even shattered windows on a few occasions, sometimes requiring emergency room visits. As aggressive and violent as he tended to get, though, he would never, ever call you names, get patronizing or passive-aggressive, or treat you like you don’t matter. My father loved me, even though there were many, many times when I thought he didn’t. When Michelle was questioning me, if felt eerily similar to one of the most vivid moments of my relationship with my father.
         Shortly after I entered high school, my parents purchased our first personal computer, along with a second phone line for dial-up internet access. A friend of mine named Pete, who I lost touch with after college, had dial-up internet at his house for at least a year. When I spent time at Pete’s house, I’d watch him talk to random people in online chat rooms, some with weird, humorous screen names, thinking it was the coolest thing in the world. Pete was probably the only person I considered a “friend” back then. I lacked the sufficient social skills to be “popular”, “liked”, or “accepted” by different cliques in school. Fearing not looking “cool” in Pete’s eyes and not having any additional friends, I decided that internet chat rooms would be the best way for me to not only connect with and meet people, but to improve my social skills, sense of humor, and wit, so I could be the “cool” guy in social situations. Back then, we didn’t have Skype, FaceTime or webcams so you could at least see who you were talking to. Back then, you were “talking” to an anonymous pop-up screen. Anyone who utilized chat rooms in those days was taking a major risk with the myriad of dangers inherent in communicating with what is, in reality, a pixelated colored box on a screen. But I didn’t give two shits. In chat rooms, you were never judged by your looks, your posture, or how you spoke. You were simply utilizing a tool to get a good conversation started. Nowadays, internet chatting, both anonymously and visually via social media and online dating services, is how most people meet. I guess you could say I was ahead of my time.
         Bolstered by vibrations of jealousy and an unflinching desire to engage in social interaction without the judgement of facial expression, I pled with my dad to get our own internet access. After many begging fits, my dad finally relented, but only because he wanted to experiment with this “worldwide maze of shit”, as he called it. Naturally, once the phone line was installed and internet access was possible on our PC, my father placed stringent rules on my access: never give out personal information such as your name to a stranger without consulting him first, and never go online unless your homework is done. My parents were very, very strict on me during my childhood. In high school, if my tongue so much touched a drop of alcohol at a party, or if I didn’t place a phone call to my mother or father immediately upon arriving home from school, I would be punished harshly. I wanted to be that rebel that got drunk and had sex at high school parties, but I never became one for good reason: I feared my father’s temper. If I were ever caught, he would have seen to it that I never leave the house again until the day I graduated, and he would mean it. So it goes without saying that committing such transgressions such as revealing my login password or my father’s credit card information to an anonymous pop-up screen would have resulted in a slow, painful death.
         At age 16, chatting on the internet was one of the few thrills of my life, and when I felt lonely, it felt like a necessity. And it occurred very often. It didn’t matter that you were talking to a pixelated box. In that moment, you felt accepted. You felt like you could connect with something, anything, and anyone. And for an added bonus, you could enunciate your real thoughts out loud without fear of retribution or scorn. Nothing else in the world mattered in that moment, with your eyes fixated on the screen, and words and chiming sounds meant the difference between ecstasy and despair.
         Following one particularly bad day at school, I decided to break my father’s rules in a fit of depression and desperation. As soon as I returned home from school at 3:30, I logged online without touching my homework or performing household chores. My parents didn’t return home from work until approximately 5 PM, so I had an hour and a half to navigate the chatrooms. Ultimately, I struck up a conversation with someone with the screen name “JessicaMarie1” in one of those chat rooms catered for teenagers. JessicaMarie1 didn’t seem like one of those shady pornographic screen names like SuKmYDyk69 or some shit, so I figured she, or it, may be worth talking to. We began by chatting about music and movies, and as the conversation progressed, it became flirty and sexual. As a result, I totally lost track of the time.
         Suddenly, at 5:05, while deeply immersed in typing smiley faces and seductive words in Times New Roman format and totally oblivious to my surroundings, my mind snapped back to reality when I felt the loud, heavy stomping of my father’s size 14 feet. By the time that happened, it was too late to shut down the computer and retreat to my room to pretend to do my homework, nor was it wise to concoct lame excuses to explain my actions. It only took an extra few seconds after I first heard his stomping for him to be standing next to me. I knew I was fucked. My father, all 6’3 and 250 pounds of him, stood over me like a giant monster shadowing over the insignificant specs beneath. His blue eyes seemingly were popping out of his aviator glasses like water bursting through a cracked dam. The beet-red cheeks of his perfectly clean-shaven face were expanding like a balloon, and his beach ball-sized beer belly was grazing my cheek. He angrily demanded for me to relinquish the computer mouse. Immediately after releasing my right hand from the mouse, he slapped the computer’s power button with his index finger, and the monitor instantaneously turned black. I froze in terror, and didn’t look at my father for fear of his facial expression bringing me to tears.
          “Tell me why you’re on the internet during homework time?” he asked in his loud, bellowing baritone that sounded like the echo of an organ in church.
         Had I disobeyed his rule? Yes, but I felt I had a legit excuse: I hated my life. Chatrooms were my only means of happiness in my teenage years, something he could never possibly understand, nor would he want to hear. He ended such a sublime moment for me in a nanosecond. As upset as I was, I couldn’t act like a fucking pussy in front of my father, nor show defiance. I had to act like a man, meaning I had to maintain a blank facial expression and speak only when spoken to without displaying a hint of emotion.
         “I…I…I’m sorry,” I nervously stumbled. “I completely lost track of the time.”
         “Yeah, right,” he snapped.
         “I’m dead serious, Dad,” I growled. “I…I…I got into a conversation with this girl…”
         “Are you sure it was a girl?”
         “Her name was Jessica.”
         “Based on what?”
Before becoming a cop, my father was a sergeant in the Marine Corps, where he perfected discipline, honor, and respect. Also, he learned how to not take shit from anyone. He spent his entire adult life distinguishing truth-tellers and liars, and he was great at it. It still impresses me to this day. Bullshitting my father was impossible. You could place a thousand honest people and one liar in a room, and he’d instantaneously identify the liar.
         “Her screen name,” I spluttered. My heart was bubbling like a bar of soap inside a boiling-hot oven.
         “Oh, I see,” he retorted. “We had this discussion when we first installed the phone line, didn’t we? You do realize the amount of scumbags and shysters in this world that create screen names like that to scam people, don’t you, James?!”
         “I know…”
         “You knew, but you did it anyway,” he snapped. “Imagine if you had given out our address and phone number! Some serial killer can show up at our door, rob us, and murder us! Do you want that?”
         Formulating any reply was impossible. No response would satisfy him.
         “It’s a damn shame what this world is becoming,” my dad griped. “At some point in history, this is how we’ll all be communicating, and it makes me sick to my goddamn stomach.”
         “Why are other kids in school allowed to do this?” I asked, foolishly defiant. “How come Pete and his brothers can do it?”
         “Because Pete’s parents are morons!” my father bellowed so loudly the damn walls shook. “And I’m a moron for even allowing this! James, I’d better not see you chatting on the web during homework time again!” he said while pointing his finger in my face. “Your mother and I place these restrictions on you for a reason! If I catch you again, I’m cancelling our internet service! Permanently! And I mean it!”
         I continued to sit still, expressionless. My mind scrambled in a thousand different directions, feebly attempting to accept the truth: if I wanted to maintain a major means of happiness in my life, I would have to do it within my father’s stringent parameters. I simply had no choice.
         “Ok, Dad. I understand.”
         “Look at me and say it!”
         “Dad…”
         “I said look at me! Now!”
         Looking into his eyes and fighting back tears, I once again told him I understood. After he took a deep breath, he smiled, thanked me, patted me on the shoulder, and offered to bring me a soda.
         That is why my father was the best person I ever knew. He was tough but fair. He feared nothing and no one. He said what he had to say, then, even if it seemed like he was buttering you up, he’d display compassion and sensitivity. He knew the exact moment to move on from a tough situation. He was the perfect communicator.
         “Listen, I’m going to ask you an honest question,” he said. “Do you want to be remembered as a kid that got scammed by some random asshole on the internet and dragged to a dark alley and shot? Do you want to be remembered as the moron gullible enough to place himself in such a dangerous situation? Do you want to be remembered as a statistic?”
         And then, it came, like a bolt of lightning crashing into my brainstem:
         “How do you want to be remembered, James?”
         On the outside, I let out a light chuckle. On the inside, my blood boiled and my heart pounded out a thousand beats at once. My father would not tolerate me looking annoyed in that moment. He wanted me to be a carbon copy of the disciplined military man he worked to be; his own offspring molded in his image.
         “Dad, this is the billionth time you’ve asked me this…”
         “Well, come on, son!” he interrupted. “You have to have an answer!”
         “And you can’t expect a different response each time. I’m going to be whatever the hell I want to be. Didn’t you say that?”
         “Yes, son, I have.”
         “There ya go!”
         “You can be whatever you want to be, son. Just don’t be a dumbass.”
         As soon as I hear the word “dumbass” from my father’s mouth, his deep baritone suddenly became overdubbed by a loud, testosterone-fueled female voice.
         “Dumbass,” Michelle said into my ear, promptly ending my daydream and sending shockwaves throughout my body that directed me to posture myself perfectly and not appear to be zoned out in a blissful dream world. When the hell did she start speaking, anyway? Was it 30 seconds ago? Five? Right at the moment I snapped to? No matter, it was time for the fascist bitch to make every effort to rub in my face that I didn’t pay full attention to her. She thinks I’m the worst listener alive.
         “I’m not going to tell you again to keep your focus!” she barked. “You should be concentrating on taking calls and not using the internet! If you do it again, I’m going to write you up! Do you understand me, James?”
         That fucking cunt thinks she’s my damn mother. It’s one thing to be authoritative from a business standpoint, but it’s quite another to be authoritative at a personal level. I wanted to get right in her boney little face and tell her to fuck herself. I wanted to get nose to nose with her and tell her she is the worst human being alive. I wanted to dare her to assault me, even if meant costing me my job. I wanted to show her how it felt to be treated the way she treats me. I didn’t care. If she also got fired, it would be worth it.
         How do you want to be remembered?
         The man that stood up to one of the worst human beings that ever lived.
         The man that ended Michelle’s reign of terror.
         The man that kept his mouth shut when he needed to in order to keep his shit job.
         “I’m sorry, I zoned out. I promise it won’t happen again,” I said, tentatively.
         Michelle stared at me and didn’t say a word. When this happens, it means she thinks you’re a liar.
         “I’ve heard it all before, James,” she scoffed. “You should have listened to me the first time! Why won’t you listen to me?!”
         “Hold on now…”
         “Shut up!”
Michelle took a heavy breath, said she was done with me, and stormed away from my desk. My co-workers looked on in horror, either waiting for me to respond with a tirade or start crying over the total embarrassment just laid upon me. I was infuriated like you wouldn’t believe.
         How do you want to be remembered?
         If I dropped dead of a heart attack right then and there, I’d be remembered as the one Michelle drove to an early death.
         And you know what? In a sick, twisted way, I kind of wish she did. Michelle was one of the ones that caused me to snap. Because of her, along with a myriad of other factors, both realistically and existentially, I made a choice that changed the course of my life, for better and for worse.