The Ghosts of White Trash past: Also known why I can’t have ANYTHING nice.
What a month! My new year’s resolution was to start blogging more often, but my other new year’s resolution was to pay off all my debt. So while paying off all my debt, I don’t get much time to blog. These are some serious first world problems, and that’s my back asswards way of saying that I’m sorry for the lag in writing. Clearly, I need a book deal, bitches.
So it’s been a very rough month, and we have to put my grandfather in a nursing home before he accidentally assaults my mom’s ass with his cane because he hallucinated her as a dinosaur or banshee. He’s been staying up all night, talking to dead people, and it’s a very sad situation. The even sadder part is he has nothing to show for his 90 years on earth except 4 or 5 campers, 106 tires, and some wooden instruments that are warped from humidity.
Damn yo, that’s harsh to reflect on. And with that comes the fact that I want some nice shit and don’t want to end up like him, on my kid’s couch, peeing it up and fighting about taking a bath for a doctor’s appointment once a month. Yes, I did mean a bath once a month.
In my day-to-day life, I beat back the ghosts of my white trash past, their transparent mullets tugging away at my trivial achievements. I can hear them beckoning me back into the world of shitty credit scores, cars with salvage titles, and cat urine that could fill up the grand canyon. I am the first of my mother’s offspring to not only graduate high school, but to go on with my own ambition and take (very few) college courses in which I paid for by delivering pizzas.
In my struggles to attain upward mobility, I run into a great deal of speed bumps. I actually got my first apartment by myself back in May (lived for several years with roommates or ex’s) but it’s not in the best of complex’s around here. I won’t confirm or deny the statement that I once found a used condom next to my car. The cheese crackers and Juicy Juice cartons in the bushes only add to the ambiance, and the sound of Hispanic music fills the air with a slight exotic flavor. Yes, my neighbors do all of their car repairs right here in the parking lot of the complex in wife beaters and yell comments about the size of my ass as I enter my car. I do have a big ass, so that’s just going to happen anywhere really.
The reason I live in said non-stellar elements is because I had braces put on in November. Since I was thirteen years old, I refused to smile or let people see my teeth. Braces aren’t cheap and even though I go to a dental school for them, they still take a crooked bite out of my finances. So at 30, I could choose to live with a catty ass roommate (cause living with women is torture for a girl who’s a guy like me) and have swank braces, or I could live in a crappy complex by myself and go to a dental school. Obviously I picked the latter. So in order for me to have teeth that don’t look like a set of haunted house stairs, I have to settle for a crappy apartment.Whatever, it’s still fancier than the hovel I grew up in, so I’m fine. Central heat- shit’s like Beverly Hills to me.
The people who live above me sound like they host UFC fights with midgets. The stomping and slamming against the ceiling are reminiscent of an exercise class taught by Thor himself. I legitimately don’t know if it’s severely storming, or if the bastards are just up doing their usual. On top of that, neither of them have jobs, so I get to hear these wonderful noises anywhere from 6am to 1am any time of day. When they walk their pit bull, I can hear him tearing ass across the floor as well. It’s really a calming way to wake up or fall asleep while depressed about your living situation.
Then, I hand washed my dishes for 4 months before finally raising hell about my 30-year-old dishwasher not working. They looked at it and mentioned ordering one, but no one ever did. I finally reported it again, when 3 of my electric sockets stopped working. They ordered me a new one, but it also doesn’t work. I opened it all eagerly the first night it was installed, and it looked like a baby had vomited across my dishes. I still hand wash my dishes even though I reported it again last week. I also just recently discovered that I have baby roaches in my bathroom. How? Because I found one in my contact lens case. And in my shower.
A few Saturdays ago, I had no water the entire night. I found a note on my door saying that a tree root had busted a pipe, but now it should be fixed. Awesome! I take a shower shortly after, only to find my water pressure is like someone popped some holes in a capri sun drink and is squirting it across my back. That’s also still going on, along with baby vomit dishwasher.
To add to common patterns in my white trash heritage, my car was making a terrible smell a few weeks ago. Turns out, a garbage bag was attached to my muffler, and they had to scrape it off with a knife.
So you see, I want to have nice things. I want dishwashers that work, serene surroundings, and water pressure that should blow the mullet right off my skull. I fight the ghosts of white trash past with brass knuckles and clenched teeth covered in braces, all for the sake of not going back to where I once was. For every step ahead, I do get spray farted 3 steps back by the sphincter of fate, but damn it, I will persevere with the tenacity of my dad’s porn addiction.
With that said, I leave you with a real photograph of a crime scene trailer from my home town. Yes, it’s not a drawing this time around because crime scene trailer is pretty epic.
Oh, and here’s me in braces with no makeup. May it haunt your soul.