The sun fought its way into the room, sneaking through the slightest spaces that the french blinds made as they hung heavy in front of the glass sliding door with the same ethnicity. The sunlight snuck its way past the defense of the blinds and followed the path of the bed up to my face. Once it gained the slightest entry it fought hard to bring the rest of the sunlight in with it. It seemed to sneak its way in between the blinds winding its way through the dark room and landing squarely on my face. I tried to move but the sunlight followed me, laughing, chuckling at my cheap attempts at fighting it. It attached itself to my face and I couldn't shake it. It was searching me, looking for something, I knew what it was looking for but refused to admit it. It burned deep. I knew what was next. I would deny as much as I can but I knew that it was pointless. I twisted, grunted, and turned in bed trying to avoid both the sunlight and the rest of the day to come. If only my bed would open up and swallow me, then I might actually have a shot at happiness. "Paul, Paul! you awake yet?!" That voice was like nails on a chalkboard. "Paul, goddamit!" O c**p here it comes. "You are so lazy, all you do is sleep, get up. Look for a job! Stop being lazy! Do you know what other people your age are doing?!" The voice began to trail off in my head. I began to wonder if the rest was scripted because it all sounded the same. "Are you listening?" Did I have to? I knew it by heart and he wasn't telling me anything I didn't already feel guilty about. "I paid for your college, your tuition, your books, got you a degree and this is what you do with it?" I wanted to fight, scream, yell, at the top of my lungs that I was well aware of all these things; he was providing me with no new information and simply denting what little armor I had left; but speaking up would only fuel his fire. "You better get a job, find some work, there is plenty of work out there for able-bodied people like you. Look at other people..." with a flick of the wrist he threw back a handfull of pills into his mouth and followed quickly with two big gulps of water. He seemed hurried throughout this entire process lest I decide to walkaway and not listen to his precious lecture with his seemingly enlightening advice. He continued, not missing a beat, "...they are out there doing things, making money, creating things. You sit here all day, on that computer doing nothing. Playing games, like a child. Grow up!" I quickly glanced at the clock. It blinked in a bright neon green 8:05. At least he would be leaving for work soon, unless he decided that his lecturing was so enlightening that he decided to forego the gauranteed paycheck and start on tour. He could travel from city to city, town to town, lecturing underacheiving 20-somethings into stardom. Children would want to become him, ladies would love him, and men would envy his speaking abilities. His articulate sense of humor which, around here, only seemed to amuse himself. He could stand at high schools, no wait lecture halls, hold on, even better, stadiums! He could stand in those soldout stadiums like those crazy preachers on television and have thousands of people call him a genius, and compare him to Deepak Chopra, Donald Trump, and tout him as one of the greatest minds of our generation. The thought of him, my father, with his thick armenian accent, standing on a podium lecturing all of America on how the world works made me exude a slight a chuckle. I wouldn't even call it a chuckle it was more like a loud exhalation. But even this slight exhalation seemed to insult him, actually I think it was my existence that seemed to insult him. It was as if the fact that I existed, was in my early 20's and wasn't making obscene amounts of money was a direct reflection of his imperfections as a father. I was a walking, talking, breathing, reminder that he may not be as great a father as he thinks he is. As much as I hated to admit it he was right about some things. I was an intelligent, physically able, hard working, college graduate, and I should have some kind of income. It wasn't his message that I depised so much it was the delivery.
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