I was born in Boise, Idaho. Not many people seem to know that about me, and since my night with Brooks, there is not much evidence of that fact. I suppose I can sympathize with Obama on something. Despite my birth in the mountain regions, my wonder years were spent in the bullseye of America: Winfield, Kansas. This is where I grew to be the beta version of the man I am today. My relationship with my parents was odd, to say the least. I was never put on a watch. I lost my curfew before middle school, and without shackles I had nothing to protest during my rebel stages of life. I could do whatever I wanted, and as a result I did nothing. The world was too big too soon. I sat back and let society raise me. My parents cared about me, but their philosophies were that I should be allowed to make my own choices, even when I wasn’t aware of all the facts involving said choices. Such an immense freedom is surprisingly constricting. Everything was too much to take in. I couldn’t focus on one thing or another, so I absorbed bits and pieces of different puzzles and wondered why they didn’t fit together.

I firmly believe that a person’s core is unchangeable, unless you’re faced with a traumatic event of some sort. It can vary from your very first miscarriage to accidentally running over a dog. In my case it was relatively light compared to the horrors some people have had to endure, but it came nonetheless and I think it changed me for the better. When I was a freshman in high school I played the Trumpet. On a trip to the community college one rival town next door we all had some time to kill, so I wandered. Back then I had virtually no friends and I spent my spare time with my hands in my pockets, head hung low and kicking rocks. Walking down the hallway I noticed an elevator. A life in small town flatlands makes such a sight one to behold, especially for a kid whose curiosity had no focus. I stepped on to ride it. The only option was to go one floor down, so I pressed the button and backed into a corner. Neat, I thought. When the doors open several bandmates sat outside, shooting the shit. I walked out lonesome and embarrassed at the lackluster adventure I had partaken. “Errol, what were you doing in there?”

“I don’t know, I was bored.” I said before running off and up the stairs. I heard laughter in the background. It wasn’t until later that I found out the reason for the uproar. Someone said that I was jacking off in there. Back then I was shy, friendless and sensitive, which made me the perfect person to approach with such a perverse rumor. Like wildfire it spread and soon people made mastubation motions and sang Beat it to me in the halls. It angered me greatly, which was like putting out fire with gasoline. Over that summer I came to the realization that it wasn’t me they were making fun of: it was my reactions. The target on my back was vibrant, red, and riddled with kick me scribbles. I had to shake it. No target meant no darts. By the time that fall had come back around I shook off everyone’s jokes and even joined in for a few. I took an insult and turned it into a friendly wit battle. Soon I was in the good graces of those who were once on the other side of my fence.

Everything was fine until my psychotic aunt and her two kids showed up at my house in search of refuge. My mom allowed her in because family or whatever (Like I said, raised by society meant a lack of family loyalty) and she proceeded to ruin my home life. She cut power off to my room when I took a blanket of mine from the living room, and refused to turn it back on until I returned it. I let her have it and at a later date shut off the power to my room, examining anything else of use that may pose a problem to her. When I did so I noticed that the refrigerator was connected to my circuit.


The next time my aunt came home with the groceries I lit an incense in my living room to annoy her. She told me to put it out, and I smugly refused. Immediately she went to what she believed to be her go to leverage, and the smile on my face couldn’t be wider when she opened the fridge to find that the light didn’t come on. She angrily threw her groceries in there and restored power to my room. That was the last time she would have the upper hand on me.

When I was younger I dabbled in the darkest of arts; Manipulation. I was good at turning people against people I disliked, an example being a woman in particular who was dating my friends Chad and Nick (not at the same time). She went from well liked part of the posse to scarlet lettered outcast by the time I was done with her. Who knows, though? Maybe I was her traumatic event, because from what I’ve heard she turned out to be a pretty decent person. These days, however, I have learned just how evil that particularly political tactic is and have ceased practice of it. I try not to manipulate people anymore, but occasionally it will seep through.

My post Kansas days have all been logged in previous entries with the close friends I’ve developed down there, but that’s not to discredit them from the stories shared above. The two worst states I’ve lived in have harbored the best people I have ever met. Some made only guest appearances on other entries, but the reason for that lies solely in the fact that our stories are more inside to us, and my small world of followers would simply not understand. I will die thinking of those people. I want to die thinking of a friend.

I want to die seeing strawberry fields forever, or saving whole seconds by placing my chinese food order online. Or maybe while listening to Sister Golden Hair on a station coincidentally known as WEAL, thinking I’m a coolboi on my bike roaring down the highway.

I haven’t contributed much to this world, and to write a mini-biography such as this along with the other If I Die entries throughout seems trivially idiotic. I don’t even have a book published, although hopefully that will change by the end of the year. But I’m glad I did this, for one reason and one reason only: my friends. I’ve wanted to accomplish two things with my writing: introduce entertaining ideas and stories for the masses that make them laugh/cry/think/escape and to touch lives in a way that makes me immortalized in their memory, even if it’s only for one thing. Memories and history books are the only things that matter, and with these posts I have touched all the people I’ve written about, and have now given them a permalink down memory lane. When I die, however it may happen (heart disease is a strong contender), they will have these posts to refer to, and I take comfort in that fact.


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