My great-grandfather didn’t rape and pillage any helpless women (and/or children) in his day. He was an inventive farmer who smoked three packs of cigarettes and drank two pots of coffee every morning before the sun rose. During the weekends of 1931, he tried his hand at circuit racing, and, from the stories I've heard lent down to each teenager in the bloodline, he was good.
His son—that would be my grandfather, in case some of you have a hard time keeping up—didn’t get drunk at annual Christmas "get-togethers" with his older brother and ramble into how he hadn’t seen anyone at the party since their sister died 4 years previous. He wrote mildly amusing, mostly comedic, cowboy poetry and decayed after a few strokes in the hurried time I felt the ecstasy of knowing him.
Next in the male lineage comes my father, who never traveled the world, touched a beer in front of me, or even second-hand-smoked Marijuana when he was in high school—it’s probably for the better. He married young, started an offset printing company with two acquaintances even younger, and can count how many times he’s missed a Sunday church service without even taking his mittens off.
That unveils me: the unexpected, drop-out heir to their throne of satisfied monotony, who is attempting to say something of value, but(t) fuck it. I know you don’t want to hear this anymore. Even I’m already sick of it.
In short, welcome to another (judging from what the ladies tell me, post-insincere-smiling-and-awkward-silence) premature cum stain on “real” literature’s britches. Cross your fingers for improvement, and pray to Camus for guidance.
