Shut up and let me see your jazz hands.

Expectations.

   One of my favorite books of all time is “The Realm of Possibility” by David Levithan.  In the book there’s this chapter/story line called “My Girlfriend is in Love with Holden Caulfield”. It’s basically about this guy whose girlfriend is in love with (you guessed it) Holden Caulfield. She spends all her time rereading Catcher in the Rye and trying her hardest to make Holden real. She even compares her boyfriend to him and makes him want to be Holden just for her sake. She expects so much from him when he like her just the way she is.

   This chapter always stood out to me the most in this book because it’s something that happens too often.

For almost my entire life i have seen girls dreaming of the “perfect guy” and guys dreaming of the “perfect girl”.

  I see posts on my dash every single day that run along the lines of: “I want a guy who will hold my hand when i’m scared. A guy who will buy me roses and tell me i’m beautiful every single day. A guy who will kiss me in the rain and send me sweet texts. Someone who will have me on his mind 24/7…”

  Then i hear guys at my school who just want someone to cook for them and have big boobs, be nice, and skinny.

I’m not going to say who the dellusional one is in this situation because to me, they’re a definate tie.

  All girls have this image of who their prince charming is and it is complete bullshit. I promise you that maybe 1% of straight men on the face of the earth are like this. Maybe even less. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. It’s the truth.

Guys are human beings, not Edward Cullen or Holden Caulfield.

They have all the same flaws as girls, they’re just not as good as hiding them.

Girls have these unbelievably high standards for guys that they overlook the ones who like them just as much as their ideal man would.

And men.

  Men are just as superficial as the opposite sex. Maybe even more. They do what we do. They overlook the ones who like them because they have these unrealist standards for their mate.

It just pisses me off that we all believe that our future partner will be the perfect person when in fact they won’t. That’s not how it works.

I think that’s why most relationships don’t work out. Because we all have these ridiculous expectations that no one can live up to.

There will be some jealousy, fights, bickering. It doesn’t mean that it won’t be worth it.

  As a society we should get rid of the idea of perfect fucking robot companion and have the kids and teenagers of tomorrow have the idea in their head that their love will make them happy.

Because that’s all that matters.

Forget their flaws. Forget that they’re not Holden or Edward.

If they make you happy and if you love them then that’s all that matters

I was bored and I had a pen and paper.

“He’s late.”

    I tap my foot and look at the deserted parking lot before me. My little brother Peter, six years of age, stands to my right, his bottom lip quivering.

   We’re the only two kids who haven’t been pick up from school- Well no, that’s a lie. There’s this other kid here too. He’s sitting by the doors eating something that looks like guacomole. Anyhow it’s still a pathetic situation.

   I mean how hard is it to remember to pick up your kids from elementary school? 700 other parents could it, why can’t mine?

  My dad’s dinky urine-yellow car pulls up infront of us. He told me he chose it because he knew yellow was my favorite color. Looking back on it now it was probably the only thing we could afford.

“You’re late.” I say, bluntly.

   He opens the door for us and my brother gives him a hug. Peter never could stay mad at him.

   My brother and I sit in the back. I don’t sit in the front like other kids my age do when their dad drive.

1. I don’t trust him.
2. I don’t trust his driving.
3. I don’t particularly wish to experience flying through the windshield.

“Your mom is going to kill me.” He tells us as he drives.

One can only hope.

A story that didn’t quite make it.

 “Pull over!” exclaims Tim, my annoying little shit of a brother. He smushes his face against the window to like an excited dog. “C’mon, Greyson. Pull over!” he whines.

     I look out his window to see what he’s getting excited over and I automatically know it’s trouble.

   What I see is a hitchhiker. A lean, tall, curvy, Jessica Rabbit look-alike hitchhiker. Strangely enough what I notice about her first isn’t her chest, but her converse.

   Let’s get one thing clear, I’m not gay. I have nothing against gay people or anything. Two guys or girls sleeping together? Sure, whatever, hooray for gay. I’m just telling you that I like boobs.

Anyway, back to the girl’s shoes.

   I’m not sure if there’s a color in existence to describe how red these shoes were. They weren’t your average pair of red converse. Not crimson… They’re just so fucking… red…. Ruby red.

“I will give you a hundred- a thousand dollars- I will give you my SOUL to pick her up.” he pleads.

I drive past her without hesitation.

“Shut up.” I tell him.

  Tim places one hand on the window, his eyes glued onto the hitchhiker. He turns to me slowly with the most pathetic look on his pale face.

“She could be an illegal immigrant.”

“She’s white.”

“Your point?”

   He takes the straw out of his empty soda and uses it as a microphone. In a very accurate Oprah Winfrey voice he says, “Okay Timmy, we’ve got the Make A Wish Foundation sitting in the front row and they want to know what your last will be.”

I roll my eyes. “She could be a homocidal maniac for all we know.”

  He angles himself differently and uses a little kids voice, “Well golly, Oprah. There are so many things a sick kid like me could wish for. A new bike, some legos, a choo-choo train… But I guess the thing I want most in the world right now is for my brother to grow a pair of balls and do something adventerous for once.”

I let that sink in for about 5 seconds then slam the brakes. “Okay fine.”

“Thank you!”

“But she gets to ride in the front with me.”

“Deal.”

 I drive back to where the girl was and without any hesitation whatsoever she grabs her bag and hops the car and Tim climbs in the back.

She’s more beautiful up close.

   ”Thank you so much! It’s so hot out there and you two are the first car I’ve seen on this road today.” she chirps. She has a southern accent. You don’t notice it at first but her “ay” sound is drawn out. I wonder where she’s from. I wonder if that’s what Tim and I sound like.

Tim stares at her in awe and I don’t blame him. “Hey, I’m Tim.”

   She looks behind her and her smile fades away for a moment because she’s had a good look at his face. She sees that he’s whiter than a sheet a paper. I’m always around him so I’m used to seeing him like this but sometimes I forget how ill Tim looks. She goes back to smiling because she doesn’t want to announce it. She’s polite and I like that.

“Nice to meet you Tim,” she extends her hand toward him. “I’m Daze.”

He shakes it.

I offer my hand to her. “Yeah and I’m Greyson.”

Her hand is warm.

“Hi Greyson.”

  As I drive in the open desert Tim takes a nap in the back, his third nap today. I ask Daze if she can feel his forehead for me. She checks his temperature. “He feels a little warm.”

“Not to warm though, right?”

“No, not really.”

“Well then he’s fine.”

 She fixes her hair and asks me. “How sick is he?”

“He’s dying.” I tell her. “His heart is giving out.”

She freezes and looks out the window, biting her bottom lip. “I’m sorry that was none of my business-“

 I grip the steering wheel tighter. “No,no. Don’t worry about it.”

Awkward silence.

Daze breaks the tension by asking another question. “Do you, uh, happen to know where we are exactly? Last time I checked I was in Kansas.”

    We drive up to a completely deserted hick town. I’m surprised I haven’t seen any tumblweed blow past us.

  There’s something different about this place though. It has a Stephen King sort of vibe to it. The feeling of trouble fills my stomach as I say, “Daze, I have a feeling you’re not in Kansas anymore.”