George Washington chops down a cherry tree and people still fawn over him for it centuries later.
I chopped down a utility pole and now I’m a fugitive.
I was living in my ex-girlfriend’s basement, which was great because she didn’t know that I was down there. She has a restraining order against me, and when the cops came to ask if she’d seen me recently, she aggressively assured them that I was a “stupid loser” and the “biggest mistake of [her] life.” She said if she ever saw me, she’d be certain to contact them right away.
It was an incredible performance, even if it couldn’t be considered acting (it bought me four days worth of time).
She eventually found me and made good on her promise to alert the authorities.
“Oh fuck. Fuck you. You’ve been impossible to get rid of, but not anymore. This is the end for good. Fuck your shit.”
I crawled back out the window from which I came in.
“One day I’ll be remembered for this story, and one day, centuries from now, I’ll probably even be considered a legend — like George Washington,” I shouted back in through the basement window, now from the outside.
“This is so much more than some cherry tree,” I said to myself. “This story has action upon action.”
Roaming the streets alone, I figured I’d stop over at my buddy Brad’s place and tell him about everything I was involved in. He said, “You should tell this story on a podcast.”
I said, “Hell yeah buddy! Let’s get me on a podcast!”
But neither of us had any money for microphones or equipment.
But I had an idea!
“Stealing would just be another charge if I get caught. I don’t mind.”
But Brad said he was mostly throwing out the podcast idea as a suggestion for me; he said he didn’t really want to do it himself. I told him he was wasting my time. He said he was tired, and no longer in the mood to harbor a fugitive anymore.
I said, “Brad, you’ve let me down, and now, you’re letting me down again. That’s twice within the last five minutes. When I do get the podcast equipment necessary to tell my story, you’re going to be portrayed as another antagonist in it. You’ll be right there with the cops and the detectives, and the FBI.”
Brad replied, “You’re doing that thing again where you talk to avoid actually going. Just leave already. Damn.”
Have gotten out on the front door, I n my final plea for help I cried, “I HAVE A TARGET ON MY HEAD!”
Buy Brad had already locked the door on me and I wasn’t going to punch it forever. I couldn’t cause a big a scene, I had to move out.
Walking down the street, I was careful not to step into any street lights. I was certain the FBI was after me by now…SWAT teams and bomb squads…packs of canines were probably not far behind. Bounty hunters. If the news determined I’m a domestic terrorist, it could mean open season hunting for me.
I had nowhere to go and a lot of time to think.
“What’s my story worth if I’m never able to tell it?”
“What am I worth?”
And I continued walking. I went in the direction of my purpose, and I got there; I acquired the podcast equipment necessary for me to tell my story.
And I’d like to thank you all for listening.
And I’d also like to give a giant FUCK YOU to Brad.
Fuck you Brad.
If there’s anything this adventure has taught me, it’s that I can do anything I put my mind to. And that also, in reality, George Washington was probably just some pasty, wig-headed bitch who had stomache worms.
I’ve been better than him this whole time.
And now I can live happily ever after. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to me. I am the creator of my own dreams.