Surrealists Journal 3

A Story by dukovan

Growing up in modern America has its' hardships. It's the land of endless opportunity. I spent all morning choosing an album to listen to for my run. I ended strangling myself with my ear-buds. I knew whatever I chose I'd be struck with regret halfway through listening to it, so I opted to stare at the television until I had to urinate. No matter what I choose in my life, the grass will always be more supportive of my decisions somewhere else. Our next door neighbors recently installed a lawn that cuts itself and has a sprinkler system that targets anyone passing by that feels too good about their new jogging pants. My parents, in order to feel like their keeping up with Jones', purchased a toilet that has voice activated flushing. So far it only listens to my mother. I had heard the neighbors down the road just installed a toilet that assesses your eating habits and offers recommendations for restaurants, as well as sing the national anthem. I was invited to their Fourth of July party and got to try it for myself. I asked it about its eating habits to break the ice. It was amused. We began talking about the irony of patriotism and really hit it off. It became the only one in the neighborhood I could find meaningful conversation with. I began to come over on weekends to use their bathroom. I had to find excuses to do so. I even dressed up as a plumber with a false mustache offering free consultations. They grew suspicious when the toilet began to talk of leaving the suburbs to start a homesteading community as an outhouse. They eventually got rid of the toilet and I had heard it was made into porcelain plates feeding a family of four.

At thirty, I am still at my parent's home. I've been planning my escape since I turned eighteen and have been asking for bedsheets every birthday since. I almost have enough to make a rope long enough to dangle from my bedroom window. The trouble is, every year my parents add another story to the house and I somehow always remain on the top floor. I thought it may be possible to fly out as my analyst says I have something called "Peter Pan" syndrome. I will probably start asking my parents for sheets on Christmas as well.

My parents are the sentimental type. They still keep my umbilical cord framed on the wall with the words "There's no place like home" bannered around it. They also insist on keeping my childhood crib my father built out of the bones of my great grandparents and tell me I should keep it for my child. The thought of having children is terrifying. What If I were to damage them physically or emotionally? The return policy is awful. What if it grows up to look like the cousin I hate or the uncle who hates me? What if it gets into insurance sales and tries to sell me life insurance? What if it makes strange sounds when it chews?

I think of an argument my mother and I often have about the existence of a god. She says he exists in a literal way, and I say in a literary way. She can't make out the difference between the two words. I find irony in the fact that she thinks global warming is a myth to scare children into recycling, while she has no problem with the belief that God sent a flood to wipe out all but one family, and that this is the family we are all descendants from, rather than having a common ancestor with the apes. My mother has trouble with the word irony. She thinks its some sort of shirt that has a few wrinkles left. Is it depressing that she still irons my shirts, and forbids me to learn to cook?

© 2017 dukovan

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Ardra

I enjoyed reading it... the part of having so many bed sheets...n parents keeping ur umbilical cord .. I thought in America..the age u turned 18 u get out of your house heheh... like some kind of requirement..the toilet part is hillarious