“Euphemia”
Growing up, I idolized my dad. He was a giant, like, really,
a giant, like the Incredible Hulk, but with a beiger skin tone.
That’s always who he reminded me of. The Incredible Hulk.
But unlike the Hulk, he’d never shrink to a normal human. He
was big and bulky all the time. And angry. I’d see him rage, his face full of
damnation, and he’d yell and throw things and break stuff around the house
after he lost a big game.
My little brother likened him to Frankenstein. And yeah, he’d
kinda remind me of Frankenstein, those times he was so mad. He was so big and
tall and angry and limping and there’s tons of scars on his body from football
and surgeries. He could be pretty scary. I loved him and admired him, but,
truth is, I’ve always sorta been afraid of him. I remember running, my heart
thumping, and diving into bed, hiding under my blankets, those times he was
mad. He really was like a monster from a horror movie or something.
I think he was shooting steroids or HGH, or whatever those
football guys use. Once I walked by my parents’ room, at age 10 or so, and saw
him bending over, in front of a full-length mirror, injecting something into his,
uh, rear end...
That was when my idea, concept of him changed. That muggy
late summer afternoon, with the cicadas roaring in a collective buzz, and the
sun spilling in, its yellowish glow illuminating my parents’ room like a box of
jewels. Walking by, seeing my Hulk dad bending over like that, sticking a
syringe in his... After that, like, I knew, he was just a guy. He was a human.
He wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t Frankenstein and wasn’t really as scary after
that either.
Not that I saw a lot of him, though, growing up. He’d mostly
be gone, at practice, traveling for games, doing press, doing whatever he was
doing. Sure, I’d have liked it if he were around more, but I can’t complain too
much. I grew up in a house that was almost as big as my school. We had a moat
in the front yard. A moat with fish!
I’d read children’s stories, thinking, how the princess in
the story, living in her castle, was just like me. I’m a princess, yeah, I
know. I won the genetic lottery, being born into a rich family. People hate
trust fund kids, rich kids, but most people would do the same thing for their
kids, and my dad gave his blood, sweat, and tears for every red cent he
provided our family. Every Christmas present, every bite of food came from his
hard work. I don’t know why anyone has a problem with it. It’s not like it’s
their business anyway.
Why do people like to count other’s money? Like, I once saw
a website devoted to celebrities’ net worth. I’ve seen people in heated
arguments online about who earns more money, Beyonce or Jay Z… Why would anyone
care? I don’t understand it.
And no, I don’t feel bad or guilty about how I grew up. I
offer no apologies. I am proud of what my dad accomplished.
But, I guess the haters will be happier now, right? Now that
we’re not so rich anymore. Misery loves company. Poverty too perhaps?
It was when I started college, that’s when the money
problems started. It didn’t immediately affect me, financially, that much,
because I’m on an academic scholarship and work part-time at the campus
bookstore.
As I said, I don’t feel guilty about my upbringing, but I do
want to make my own way, so I’ve always had part-time jobs and stuff… I’ve
never wanted to be the stereotypical trust fund kid mooching off my parents, like
some of my friends.
Some of the kids in my high school, too. They were so… apathetic,
so passive, and would do mountains of drugs, drink like fish, probably just to
feel something, I guess. They always seemed sort of dead to me. Like lacking a soul.
Some of those kids, it was like they were empty, basically just waiting to die.
I don’t know. It’s hard to explain, but you know it if you
see it, where I grew up...
I never wanted to be like that. I think part of that stems
from seeing how hard my dad worked to earn his money. It motivated me. I was
always driven to succeed, always got straight A’s, always worked odd jobs,
usually at bookstores and libraries, so I could read, study on the job. I’ve
always had goals. I want to start a company someday. In what, I don’t know. I
want to be like Elizabeth Holmes, but, like, not corrupt. An Elizabeth Holmes
but with an honest company and product.
(I would wear a turtleneck sweater like her though. She
looked ON FLEEK in that black turtleneck…)
Back to my parents, the money problems they’re having, like
I said, the whole thing didn’t immediately affect me, financially, too much,
but I’ve noticed how terrible it’s been for them, especially my mom. God, I
really feel bad for her…
Okay, I will be honest and admit that it was a nightmare to
see my childhood home sold off to a punk YouTube star. A kid who’s a couple
years younger than me.
To think of the sweat my dad shed on the football field, and
that YouTube jerk, Jack Thee Jackass, this guy who judges fart competitions and
makes prank videos with his bros, those morons, those guys who are far too much
like the annoying backwards baseball hat frat packs who try to fuck me and my friends…
Just to think THAT GUY… Those guys… are in my parents’ bedroom, my bedroom, doing,
ick, whatever sickening… debauchery… Oh, I can’t even think about it…
It makes me want to puke. Seriously.
I wish my older brother would have played football, or
something, like my dad, so he could have bought the house.
My older brother, the wannabe international playboy.
I heard he’s working as a DJ at a strip club. Ack! Disgusting!
The pig…
Why couldn’t he have at least been a millionaire YouTube jerk?
I could imagine him producing those fart compilation videos, or videos of shooting
things from his butt, like those jackal idiots. I remember he tried doing
videos like that, before…
