tagReviews & EssaysI Do Not Like...Game Over.

I Do Not Like...Game Over.


This is my list of some of the things that I dislike.

I do not like fireworks. The pause between the fireworks going up, up, and up in the sky just before exploding is the part that I do not like. When I watch the tiny light climb, flicker, fade, and disappear, it feels like when I inhale and hold my breath not knowing if it is my last breath to take. Then, when the fireworks explode is when I can exhale a wide eyed expulsion of air, finally, and relax happy to be alive. After doing that for hundreds of fireworks, my nerves are shot and I am exhausted.

"Please, no more fireworks. I cannot take anymore."

I do not mind lightning as much, as I do fireworks, because with lightning, I can stay indoors where I am safe but with fireworks, I am pressured to go outside and pretend that I enjoy them. I mean, everyone likes fireworks. Right? You would be weird if you confessed that you did not like fireworks. I do not like fireworks, ergo, I am weird. Right?

When you ponder it, fireworks are an affront to God or to whoever is out there in the vastness of the universe. It is akin to sticking out your tongue at someone but not anyone in particular and without knowing if you are offending anyone. It is much like shooting a gun in the dark and not knowing if the bullet will stop and fall harmlessly to the ground before hitting something or someone.

Turn off your headlights on a dark road. Hold your breath. Do you feel that panicked horror? Fireworks.

"Stop! You are giving me a headache." I imagine an Alien Being poking his, her or its head through a hole in the sky and shouting at those responsible for the fireworks.

I do not like people because, regrettably, I am one of them. I feel so very ordinary being one of you. After all, with nothing special about me to set me apart from someone else, someone like you, I am one in a crowd of billions and not, as I would prefer to believe, one in a billion. There is always someone younger, taller, better looking, smarter, stronger, and faster than me. Who am I? I am no one. I am me. I am you. You are me. We are human. We are alive. We are dead.

I do not like crowds. I do not feel safe surrounded by hands, arms, legs, and eyes ready to touch me, grab me, kick me, and stare at me. I avoid crowds of people because it is there, especially, where I feel so very ordinary and vulnerable, like a cow within a herd of millions of other cows.


There I am. Where? I am that tiny dot that you can no longer see because I am so infinitesimally small and unimportant in the scheme of things, especially when you think universally. Here I am a speck on the planet Earth that is a speck in our universe. Am I really that small and that inconsequential? That is really weird, difficult to grasp, and to wrap my brain around because when I look in the mirror, I feel so much bigger.

I do not like to do the expected, the predicted, or the assumed. Walk backwards, fall down, jump up, sing everything everywhere, and run naked through town. You do not know me. How could you? I do not know you. How could I? I do not even know myself. You may think you know me but you do not.

"Witness Protection Program."

Perhaps, you read something in what I have written that made you feel something similar at the time that I wrote the story and, now, you feel connected to me, even though you are not. Now, you feel you know me, even though you do not. If you promise to stop living vicariously through me, I will stop believing that I am different than you. We are not tethered together, are we? You are as much of a stranger to me as I am to you. Ah, but there is the rub. Because we are all human, we are more alike than we are different. If I know myself, then I know you and you know me...more often than not.

I do not like time. Time ticks too slowly. Time passes too quickly. Time never stays still. Stop. Please. Just for a minute. Just for a second. I need to feel unrushed and unhurried in my day that has already gone by too slowly, too quickly, now gone, today now yesterday and tomorrow now today.

"I give up."

Time makes me feel pressured and nervous always there telling me when to wake, when to sleep, when to eat, when to work, and when to relax. Stop. Be quiet. Listen.

"Tick, tick, tick, tick."

"Can you hear it?"

"I am out of time."

Yes, but you cannot touch it, feel it, or stop it. There it goes, gone forever.

What exactly is time in relation to space and to where we are right now? Where does it go? Does it travel at the speed of light through space? If we could fly faster than light, could we catch it, pause it, stop it, and make it go backward? Think Black holes and the relationship of space and time.

"Tick, tick, tick, tick."

Think Einstein. Think E=MC2. Think.

"Tick, tick, tick, tick."

"Too late."

I do not like the inevitable, taking a back seat, standing still, and doing nothing with my life. There you have it. It is over before it began and just when it was beginning to get good. I wish I knew that before, if only I knew that then. Think, what is it that I should know now but do not know it yet and, surely, will know it later when it is too late to know it for any practical use? I have little control of those around me. I cannot change anyone but myself, sometimes not, even then, when given so little control over my destiny.

"Please insert your password, now. Access denied! Game over...game over...game over."

I do not like the fact that I will die today, tomorrow, who knows when, but, surely, as I was born, I will die. Everyone around me now will die, eventually, one day, soon, too. Everyday living is one day closer to dying. It is depressing to think about it, so I bury my head in the sand and do not think about it. It will happen soon enough, then what? It is too scary to think about no longer existing. What if there is no life after death? Probably, it feels the same when we die as it did before we were born...we feel nothing. Will I still be here in some form of energy or spirit relegated to live in another dimension in time that runs parallel to your universe? Who is to know? We know very little until we know it, and then, what, and all over, again.

"Tweet, tweet...and so it goes," wrote Kurt Vonnegut.

When I die, will I, finally, meet the Tralfamadorians?

I do not like preplanned arrangements, programmed activities, and scheduled appointments. I rather do my own thing, in my own time. Leave me alone to be me. Please do not categorize me by fitting me in a category because I do enough of that myself, whenever I believe that I am being oh, so individual. I am oh, so predictable after all, even though I take extra measures to be oh, so different. I cannot help but to be predictable. I am no different than you. We are much one in the same, you and I. What you do today, theoretically, I did yesterday or may do tomorrow. Yeah, I did that. Did you do this? Cool. Oh, you did that, already. Boring.

I do not like talking. How many times must I repeat myself? What is your name? Where do you live? How old are you? How much do you weigh? Where were you born? What do you do for a living? What are your hobbies? What do you want? What will you have? May I help you? How are you? Write it down this time so that I will never have to say it, again. Here, everything you need to know about me is on this microchip, now there is no need to ask me these inane questions over and again.

Now, there is no need for me to speak to you ever again. Matter of fact; do not speak to me, unless you have something new, interesting, and exciting to say. It is not worth my time talking, especially, to you and, especially, when I am the one who has to listen to myself talking about the same stuff over, again. It makes me want to make up stuff, ridiculous and silly things to say.

"My name?"

"Wilma. My father loved the Flintstones. I wish he had named me Fred, instead."

Wouldn't it be great if we could do the Star Trek, Spock mind meld and instantly know everything about the other person? In that way, we would not waste our time with picking the wrong husbands, wives, girlfriends, or boyfriends. Never again would we make the wrong supposition about another person. Imagine...no more lies, deception, fraud, and guilt. Mind meld this! Do you believe that? Wow!

"Do you love me?"


Mind meld says that you do not.

I do not like teams. I am not a team player. Giving one or taking one for the team is as foreign to me as joining a team. Teams make my skin crawl. The only good cheerleader is a naked cheerleader.

"Go team!"

I do not like team sports, baseball, basketball, football, and hockey. I love individual competitions. I would much rather watch a boxing match, tennis game, or an Olympic event when it is you pitted against yourself than to watch a bunch of prima donna millionaires play a game, a game they conveniently call a sport just to make money.

"Are you serious? He cannot play for a month because he has a contusion? You did say a contusion, a bruise, and not a concussion?"

Take one for the team. Now, get out there and...play ball!

I do not like maps, directions, and instructions. How dare you? I know my way. I know how to get there. I know how to do it? Do you think that I need your help outlined with lettered and numbered squares drawn down to scale? If you want to help me, fold the map, directions, and instructions, and take it away. Just get out of my way and allow me to do it myself. I can, you know. Wait, where am I? I took the wrong turn. It is your fault. You were talking. You confused me. Go away. No, do not go. I am lost.


I do not like money. It is too qualifying and quantifying. Besides, after a while, wait a year, ten years, or fifty years, what cost a dime then is a dollar now or more but never less. We measure the man or the woman too much by the sum of money they possess. Forbes's list makes us anxious because we are not included. Painfully, we are excluded. We dream of winning the lottery but do not win. Without money, we are outsiders. We have no say, no power, and no influence. We are nothing and nobody.

But for a brief moment in time, no one will remember us after we are gone. Now, while we are here, no one will listen to us because they cannot hear us, unless we grease their palm and pave their way with money...money...and more money. Yes, there is more to the man or woman than money, but tell that to the toll takers who will not allow you entrance or exit to pass without your fare.

"Ticket, please."

I do not like to drink. I have enough difficulty with clarity than to fog my mind and pickle my brain in alcohol. I need to hear myself think. I cannot hear myself if the messages in my mind are distorted and floating away in a river or rum. Do I hear voices? Yes. I could not write if my inner voice did not whisper in my ear which keys my fingers must depress.

"Speak to me, oh inspired one. Tell me what to write, today. Yes, that is good. I like that, and then, what? Ah, yes, of course."

I do not like contests. Yet, here I am part and parcel to Literotica's 2007 year long Survivor's competition. I am in the lead and to me that is so odd, bizarre really, because I do not care if I win or lose. To me, it is not about the contest and about the competition; it is more about the writing and about the story. I love to write. I live to write. I must write. Tell me a story. Let me tell you a story.

"Listen, I have a story to tell you. Do you want to hear it?"

"Is it a true story?"

"Yes. No. Does it matter? Why should it matter? It is a story, after all. Be quiet, now, and just listen. Okay? Once upon a time..."

"Stop. Please do not continue. I would rather read it myself."

"Okay, allow me to write it first, then."

It is all about the story and nothing else. Everything else pales in comparison. Those of you who cheat your audience, when quelling your voice prematurely, by submitting 750 word stories when they should be 3,000 word stories or more, deny yourself the glory of the story. Those of you who dump inferior stories on the board just to increase your scorecard are not storytellers and, certainly, not writers. You are just contestants in a contest. Can you not see that?

When you do not listen to your voice and when you quiet your voice, you miss the bigger picture. You cheat yourself of the pleasure of telling a story, a story that may live long after you are gone. It is about the story, don't you see? It is the story, after all. There you are standing outside looking in alone with your guts turned inside out revealing bits and pieces of who you are in your story. If you deny your reader the glimpse of you, you are not and never will be part of the story that you profess to tell.

"...and in the end...The End...game over."

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