Breakfast… Most people forget it’s even a meal.
Others preach of it’s importance.
For me, it was awkward.
See my father was kind of a man whore, who always left me to clean up his morning afters. Which worked great for him when I was cute and unassuming and asked what was for breakfast. But by the time I was 12… I stopped getting waffles and well the sins of the father, something something means his catch of the night bitch slaps his son.
To this day I think he did it all to teach me a lesson. What was that lesson? I like to believe that it was “one night stands are bad”. More likely however, it was “always have an escape plan and a scapegoat.”
What I actually learned was the higher quality chocolate you feed a woman, the less pain they’ll put you through.
All 10 of my step moms will attest to that. Actually as I write this the number is 9. But there’s currently a pregnant Asian manicurist but with 6 half siblings and his track record, we can go ahead and say 10.
And yes despite his whorish demeanor when he was/ is single, my father was very monogamous.
I’m also taking bets on the name. Right now the 10:1 favorite is “Fortune” because my dad refers to a woman’s vagina as a “cookie” so by his logic, “Fortune”.
So at this point I’m pretty sure I should start telling a story. Preferable to my publisher one about my life.
What that story should be? No clue.
I know it should be honest. I know it should be entertaining. It should be one I hope you actually read.
But despite whatever it is. Despite whatever part of my life I end up talking about, my dad plays a huge part in it.
Because I love my dad. And I wouldn’t be half the man I am today without him.
I guess it all started when I was three.
Wait. I have to rewrite that. I think I just plagiarized Richard Wright’s “Black Boy”.
But I guess it’s fitting. Because I honestly thought I was black when I was young. Because I thought my grandma was black.
Which by the time I learned basic biology and fractions in school. Made me a quarter black.
Turns out she was just really tan, wore a tight perm and was racist to a fault.
Young me not knowing any better sort of mistook her constant use of derogatory name calling and tan skin as signs of her black ethnic culture. I mean growing up in the strict white bread and Asian wanton soup culture of Northern California all I really had to go off of was early BET.
Wait…. Did I mention I’m colorblind? I mean like really really colorblind. As in 50 Shades of Grey has nothing on my life, because my life is 1,000’s upon 1,000’s shades of grey.
E.L. James owes me royalties.
Making a joke out of this doesn’t seem to be helping my cause. Let’s try again.
Due to a crippling disability, I Jason Elia, was devoid of a life of color.
Crayola crayons and race had no meaning to him. The only color that shined through was the personality of his lovely gay daycare instructor Dwayne, the live in “brother” his fathers friend, Major Tom.
Alright, I admit, I was a stupid kid who thought his grandma was black. Shame on me.
But my grandma was a straight ballin’.
My favorite memory of her, outside of her love of baseball that she passed on to me, was the time my father forget to pick me up at school. So after an hour of waiting, a few failed phone calls to daddy, the administrative office person called my grandma to pick me up.
She was there in minutes. Which really impressed my school officials. What didn’t impress them was her walking into the office sipping her Wild Turkey out of her flask.
This lead to more calls to my father who when he was finally reached, sent a cab to take us home.
You know Alzheimer’s is a bitch.
So how many of you know how to ride a bike?
That many. Really?
My dad never taught me. Instead he explained to me how the seat looked like a penis and balls and asked if I really wanted to be like Uncle Major Tom and take that up the ass.
I know, even at seven I was shocked by that too. I thought Dwayne was the bottom. I mean come on, he was a daycare instructor.
Also I bet none of you are going see riding a bike the same way again either.
TO BE CONTINUED
2 thoughts on “How to Grow Up to Be a Writer (Part One)”
say what you want, Jason, but the Wild Turkey flask is a must for most sane grandmas
My first attempt to comment was “timed out.” Which leads me to suggest that you never take any time out away from writing. More! More!
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