It may not come as a big surprise to many. I’m an asshole. Well, I can be. For some reason a previous co-worker and growing dear friend of mine brings it out in horrible, crude ways. The flood gates open in my brain where I keep my brash thoughts locked away. Normally it splashes the shoes, but neither of us end up hating each other. A verbal push and shove, who can go farther.
I ended up a massive, cavernous billowy anus one afternoon.
“When do you give up Travis?”
“What man?” His smile broke at its edges. His eyes lock mine the way a brother locks on when it’s grown-up time.
“Ya know, like when you give up the dream being an actor.” A desperate scoff floats out.
I know he was boiling, a ‘huh’ puffed out – he couldn’t process it. He walked away, saying how I was a dick or such an asshole over his shoulder.
Why was I suddenly so cruel? I had seen him in a show that was well done. He was active and always doing work. Going back now, I wanted to know for myself. When was it okay for me to give up my dream. When do I know I didn’t make it. I needed to know where someone else’s unbroken finish line was strung.
We’ve only gotten better friends, but that question digs at me. A slow screwing into my subconscious, I’m reminded every time I see my accordion binder full of old college work,when I was in love with a dream. Now it’s a cloud, looming that I’m no closer than before and I’m nearly this close to thirty. Travis is happy as a clam working on Million Dollar Quartet as a relief to some of the headliners. I write about food, and get paid to do so.
I guess we both answered that question.
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