Spring Mornings

Ahh, the beauty of a Spring morning. The glimmering sun, the fresh grass, the birds chirping, the squirrels chasing and the not too faint smell of fertilizer. Spring mornings always remind me of the good old days. Walking around outside, barefoot, without a care in the world. Sure you'd come back into the house with black feet that would get on the brand new living room carpet your mom just had put in, but until then you didn't have a care in the world. Then you'd be forced to stand in a bathtub half full of too hot water while your mother scrubbed your feet, shouted obscenities, and continually reminded you just how much money it cost for that new Stainmaster Active Family Dorchester White Frieze carpet.

When you're out of the tub, you have the feeling of guilt, sadness and in a weird way, accomplishment. I mean you accomplished to ruin something your mom was so proud of within seven hours. Way to go, kid! Once you're dry and head to your room your guilt feelings will immediately turn into loneliness since you're now grounded and cannot leave your room. You will hear the sound of the TV in your brother's room as he watches "The Simpsons" and it will be as torturous to you then as watching an episode of "The Simpsons" is now.

While you're sitting in your room, contemplating different ways to attempt suicide, you'll stumble on an idea that will really teach your parents a lesson. They deserve this lesson because, after all, they shouldn't have grounded you just for ruining the only thing they hold dear in this while rotten world. They went through beige shaggy carpet, a light orange and brown sheen carpet and now they've fallen in love with this weirdly milky white nonsense. They love this carpet more than they love you and your brothers, which is annoying, but completely understandable. The idea you come up is to grab the red magic marker you have in your desk drawer and draw on your wrist, thus making it look like you slashed your veins open in a psychotic rage. That'll learn 'em!

Once that is complete, you'll fake yell/cry for your precious mommy. She'll enter and right then you got her. "Oh, how could my perfect little baby have done this to himself? Why God, WHY?!!!!!!!" This is NOT what she'll be saying as she sees you. She will instead be even more furious because your marker wrist has rubbed all over the brand new one thousand thread count, eggshell bedsheets you insisted on having. Your mother will remind you how you begged and begged for these even though they were expensive. "You'll just ruin them" she said. "No, I won't." you'll respond. "I'm responsible and will never fake slash my wrists ever!"  Point = Mommy.

Once you're grounded again and forced to sit on the ground without touching your red stained arms on anything, you will once again contemplate suicide. This time you'll do it right though. Nothing screams "cry for help" better than "gunshot to the head." When your parents go to bed, you'll sneak in there and grab your dad's handgun, you know, the one that you're not supposed to know where it is. Once you grab that, you'll load in the .22 caliber bullets, spin the cylinder like you're in '70's exploitation movie and head back to your lonesome room. You will think about that documentary you saw where a teenager shot himself in the head because the backwards lyrics of Judas Priest told him to. Personally, I'd shoot myself in the head because I'm listening to them normally. Backwards probably sounds better. Anyway, if that kid lived, you probably will too. You lift the fully loaded gun to your temple and say to yourself, "This ought to show them." Pull the trigger and... brains splatter all over the wall that your mom just spent a fortune painting in the most gorgeous Cornsilk white she could find at Sherwin-Williams.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, Spring mornings remind me of death.