The Ballad of My Lost Youth
“What was the name of that Papa Roach song again??” I asked my cousin. “Wait I hafta check Youtube for that.” He replied as we watched an intrusion of roaches ripple like a living mass of squirmy things. Yes, that’s what a group of roaches is called. Thank you Google.
Over a round of a big bottle of coke passed around with straws, it was our therapy. Me, my cousin and my sis would pass Saturday nights just chatting in front of our house just like always. I am a grown man chatting with teens about Frank Ocean and Rich Chigga while reminiscing about my time with Puddle of Mudd and Disturbed. Where had my youth gone?
I used to think being an adult meant having more money to burn. Now I long for those days I’m just handed my allowances. I used to rant about how it would be cool to earn my money and being able to buy the finest of things. My wallet is now bursting with ID cards and old receipts. I used to imagine the freedom that comes with an being an adult. Night outs and beer sessions. Now I’m chained to my bills.
While I haven’t outgrown wearing shorts and a t-shirt, it felt weird seeing myself in the mirror wearing clothes from two years ago with a tired face and a salt-and-pepper beard starting to cover my face again. I believe I might have gotten old faster.
That familiar scent of cigarette ash and liquor would bring back good times. I try not to inhale more lest I puke all over the floor. Friday nights spent watching Netflix while hearing rowdy office workers capping off their week downstairs is a common occurrence.
Midnight. It was time to pack the bi-weekly Saturday get-together. I sigh. Monday can wait.