LIFE OF MY STORY

I was 8 when I left Fredrick, my hamster, with Steven, my science partner. When I came back from vacation, Steven informed me that Fredrick got loose and couldn’t be found. I was heart broken, but never blamed Steven. I was 15 when Steven was arrested. The police found the remains of dead animals in his basement and a fishbowl containing the ID tags of neighborhood pets that went missing over the years.

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As I walked briskly down a mostly empty street in Manhattan at midnight, I approached a homeless man laying on the sidewalk in front of a church. I maintained my hustled stride and greeted him with a genuine but hurried “hey buddy, how are you tonight?” His response made me smile. “Slow down” he said, “you already know how to dance.”

I was exiting my local grocery store on Friday afternoon when I was approached by two small, adorable girl scouts selling cookies. “Buy a box?” they implored. “It’s for a good cause!” It dawned on me that not only could I not reach my wallet due to the heavy 30 pack of Coors Light in my arms, but I had also overdrawn my account to purchase said case. No thanks, little girls, I thought. For I have instead elected to spend my disposable income on liquid self-esteem, voluntary memory loss and a one-way ticket to hell. So I put my head down and rushed, wordlessly, to my car. And I’m not sorry. It was an awesome weekend.

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I was editing a friend’s story where he compared some chick he hooked up with to a whiny little girl. Naturally, I wanted to include a video that showcased a little girl throwing a temper tantrum. So off to YouTube I went. “Kids throwing fits,” “Little girls screaming why,” and “Girl throws a nasty tantrum” were included in my search phrases. Then I stumbled upon something special. It was a video of the chubbiest child I’ve ever seen singing a song. If you watch closely, you’ll notice that he looks like a midget wearing a chubby kid suit… because there is no way a kid like this really exists. It just can’t be.

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Someone named Paul Ling left a comment on Omar’s Short, Business Class. The comment read something along the lines of, “Interesting content. I’d like to discuss something. Call me. Paul Ling.” Below this message, Paul left his phone, fax and email, which was a Goldman Sach’s email. Could this be someone who believes Life Of My Story has investment potential? I couldn’t resist calling, but expected an automated message urging me to try new skin cream. I couldn’t have been more incorrect as to what I was expecting and what I actually got. Here is the following conversation I had with the person on the other end:

Me - Hello, my name is Ryan Wetter and I think you left a comment on my website with this number?

Him - Websites? A’int nobody messin’ round on no motha-fuckin’ websites.

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Me - Is Paul Ling there?

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Thank you for whoever posted that comment. I was expecting a recorded advertisement at best. But you actually included a phone number for what sounds like an angry, older gentleman. This deserves a Clay Davis. Websites? A’int nobody messin’ round on no motha fuckin’ websites. Sheeeettttt!

Large woman sitting in our business class… The lecture is boring and everyone is dozing off. You take your hand and reach behind into a little compartment in your school bag. Pulling out a chocolate bar, you unwrap it noiselessly and in two bites it disappeared. You give the room a quick glance around to make sure no one saw you stuffing your face. I see you large girl, I see you.

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There’s this guy at the gym. At first glance, he looks like a typical douche. Good-looking, tan & is constantly making conversations. When he’s not running for mayor, you can find him in the boxing section, hitting the speed bag for hours on end. “What’s his story?” I asked a friend of mine. I pictured him tanning after his workout. He flirts with the girl at the salon and takes her out to a rave on Saturday night. On Sundays, he gets together with a large extended family. He and his fellow kin dance to house music while waving glow sticks and drinking Rebull. I couldn’t have been more wrong. “That’s Speed Bag Scissorhands,” my friend said. “Speed Bag who?” I asked. “Yeah, Speed Bag Scissorhands. He has a website.” It was impossible to resist the urge. Speedbagscissorhands.com. This was not a gym-douche. This was something special. This man, who in my eyes was nothing more than your typical gym-tool just last week, is now my biggest hero.

This evening, my friend complained that growing up means more to worry about. So I went home and signed into one of those registered sex offender websites. There are roughly 20 child molesters who live in Asbury Park. 4 of them live on my street. That means 20 percent of all Asbury Park child molesters practically live next door. It’s a good time to be 27 years old; a lot less to worry about.