My brother Devon was one of the few men left in Iraq after Obama supposedly ended America’s “War on Terror.” But one month after his declaration of military withdrawal, we got a letter from the United States Navy saying that Devon was never coming back. And Natalie, my sister, went from beauty pageant queen to landing a spot on the front cover of Playboy’s November issue. The wealthy sixty three-year old insurance agent she married paid for her boob job.
And her nose job.
And her lip enhancement.
And her liposuction- all three of them. Now she’s divorced and he’s found a younger woman who’s a natural blonde from Sweden, and now she’s on the cover of Playboy’s November issue.
Then there was still me. I didn’t make it a full year through Julliard before I was kicked out for possession when the campus security raided my room. I didn’t have much on me at the time, but apparently one of my teachers “suspected” me of selling drugs out of my dorm. Ironically, it was the same teacher I had given a blow-job to in order to keep from failing his class. Mr. Morgan’s wife left him after I let her know what kind of a husband she had. I was out on the street for quite a while after that, travelling from city to city, hooking up with strangers, always looking for love in the wrong places. All the while my drug use spiraled out of control. It was a constant Novocain to numb all the bullet holes my heart had endured over the years.
I suppose that love was ultimately my life’s motivation. Or rather, the lack thereof, but if you asked me I’d just prefer to say the former. I’m pretty sure that I found it once- a couple of times even. I ought to have because there wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t do for it.