One Millennial's Major Complaints
By Charles Shea LeMone
Twenty-two-year-old Russell Weldon's fingers tapped at a steady rhythm. With his laptop resting on his thighs, he listened to Jay-Z rap through his I-phone headphones, composing a letter to his psychiatrist.
To Dr. H. W. Moorehouse
Saturday, May 8, 2010 -- Noon-ish:
I am writing in response to six-months of you hounding me to open up and tell you what I think my problems are. So I will school you here in print. Most of my problems start and end with my parents. Is that what you've wanted me to admit for so long? Well, to start, let's make it clear in no uncertain terms. I hate them!
My mother is the born liberal, tree-hugger type, as you may have already suspected, a college librarian, who is still trying to worm her way into me considering her my best friend. She is thick-skinned, determined in this lost cause. Nevertheless, I have to give her an A for effort. She likes repeating, “I just don't want you to make the same mistakes I made.”
Often I want to shout back at her, “Then give me the space to make my own mistakes. Okie-dokie?”
Various forms of this conversation have played out over the last eight years. That's when she caught me smoking a blunt in the garage one afternoon. And I'd be puffing on a big fat one right this instant, too, if my contact hadn't grounded me for two days running while waiting (like all the other pot dealers I know) to replenish his stash.
On the other side of the parental coin, my father, the junior partner corporate accountant, earns a D- for having tried to understand me. Lately, though, the only thing he'll discuss is why I've been unemployed for so damn long? Or how hard am I trying to find a real job and keep it for more than a couple of weeks.
About once a month, almost as regular as a woman's menstrual cycle, he lets off steam and threatens to physically kick my ass out the house. It's almost amusing the way his bifocals practically steam up; and his face turns so red it's almost blue. And dear, old dad also likes blaming me--his one and only child--for his high blood pressure and other health related issues. It's times like these, I wish I'd been born twins or maybe quadruplets to see how he'd like dealing with that.
If they think I confuse and frustrate them, it's only because they have no idea how much they have confused the hell out of me ever since I began forming my own opinions. So what that I could not stomach college life for more than a year-and-a-half and can't keep a job? Do they have to broadcast it whenever I'm in earshot of their telephone conversations with concerned friends and relatives. Talk about being an invisible man, sometimes I feel less than zero. That's why I stay in my room most of the time. It's off-limits to them with it's own bathroom, too.
You may ask: why am I so angry and choose to be distant and selfish? I could write dissertations on those topics as thick as redwood logs. For one thing: look at the world they--and their generation--are leaving young people like me and any children we might have. They've polluted the skies and oceans and the land under our feet. So tell me who inherits those problems? From jump street, they've misled us about everything, duty, responsibilities, religion, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, too.
Let's not even talk about the national deficit. I'll be lucky if I ever earn enough for a down-payment on a house, which does not get foreclosed on leaving me homeless with nobody to give a shit and without a pot to piss in. It's my brothers and sisters in Iraq and Afghanistan whom I feel the most pity for; killing and being killed and maimed, and getting psychologically screwed up for life because some politicians gave them the green-light to fight and kill. And who, but my generation is going to pick up the tab when Social Security and Medicare--and so many other entitlements--run out of dough? I'll answer that question. It'll be the suckers my parent's generation gave birth to trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
I have a cousin who is only twelve years older than me. For three years his widowed mother, all crippled and shriveled up, has been living in a cramped little house with him and his wife and three children. At the turn of the last century, life expectancy was 47 point something. Now people live forty years longer and more; and it won't be too long before every day of the week more and more people will be seeing their hundredth birthdays. As much as I try avoiding it, I can easily imagine tripping over a bunch of old prune faced people and their walkers—while trying to take a leisurely stroll in the park. Although I have no intention of ever getting handcuffed into maaried life, merely imagining myself in a similar situation, as my cousin, taking care of my mother, is a nauseating thought.
If everything I have written so far was all I had to complain about, I'd still be in college with all kinds of normal goals and plans that would please my old man. But that would be unrealistic; because all the complaining I've done so far pales to near non-existence, petty annoyances, really, next to my fears, the motivating factors that stir my life. My parents had contagious germs and the Russians and nuclear war to fear, the possibility of total extinction measured in odds. More and more, though, it has become clear to me that the doomsday scenario they feared so deeply is far less horrific, and all encompassing, as what I see coming our way in about two and a half years.
There is a big secret that governments, the NSA, and everyone in the loop do not discuss with regular people like you and me. But Nibiru, a planet the size of Jupiter, is hurtling through the cosmos closer and closer to our solar system day-by-day. Signs of it's approach are the increasing prevalence of earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions--and a long list of lesser noted, yet, unprecedented natural occurrences and uncommon weather phenomena.
Coincidentally, the arrival of Nibiru, as a true, next-door neighbor in the sky coincides with the end of the Mayan Calender. Biblical passages also sagely predict lightening and thunder in the sky, a scorching of the earth and a cleansing by fire of the impure. Well, guess who the impure are according to the Anunnakai, the 80 to 100 foot warriors, set to swoop down and invade us during the mop-up process. And that, Dr. Moorehouse, in case you don't already know, will be our fate one day in mid-December 2012.
And all my father wants to talk about is me finding a job?
There are those I know who believe the Anunnakai created us with the advanced scientific knowledge they inherited from their creators. What sets earthlings apart is our ability and our willingness to kill our own kind and everything around us; and even though we have been informed of our fate we remain firmly indifferent to the outcome.
It is also believed, by some, that there was one scientist, I shall call the Prince of Peace, who lobbied on our behalf many eons ago, which prevented another scientist, I will call the Prince of Darkness, from destroying mankind long ago. In an effort to save us in an allotted period of time, the Prince of Peace sent (what he thought to be) his healing messages and his wisdom by way of a long series of prophets, who attempted to teach homo sapiens to love and have compassion for one another. The Prince of Darkness scoffed at the notion that man could ever change his savage nature but consented to the experiment knowing in his heart that the Prince of Peace would fail.
If any of this is true, and I am a microcosm of mankind, the Prince of Peace, indeed, accepted a doomed mission. I know enough psycho-babble to realize that the label psychopath fits me like custom made armor. Because I know I could kill. Though I’ve never have done it, I know I'd kill if I was confronted with harm. I'd do it in an instant with no remorse. In fact, if I could, I'd kill the Anunnakai. What's more, if it was me against Him, and I could, I'd kill God.
Russel reread what he'd written twice while chuckling to himself each time until he came near the end of the message. Then he said good-bye to it before deleting the file—meant for his eyes only--with a click of a forefinger and a wry smile on his curled lips and a glint in his blue eyes. So far, he thought, the day had started out pretty well.
Now if his contact came through, Saturday night would be another blast. Once again he'd convinced himself that the best he could do was enjoy whatever life he had left to the max of his ability.
Thanking you... 