'But you're still a young boy!' Said the old man sitting in the chair nearby.
Shut the fuck up. I wasn't talking to you. -Ehem-
When I was a young boy, I was told to never be afraid to ask questions. Only be afraid of asking the wrong questions. My immediate reply was 'What's a wrong question?' And my father said 'Good, you're catching on!'
Well, I kept asking questions, but never learned if they were the right ones to be asking.
My name is Jadon. Hebrew. Means 'God has heard/given answer to my plea.' What plea? I was a surprise pregnancy. Nobody was ASKING for Jadon to be brought into the world. What plea did I answer? My parents didn't just like the sound. They chose that name for it's meaning. Why?
Despite the overwhelming evidence that I have always had mental problems, nothing has been done about it until recently. One: Why wouldn't you tell me, when I've been asking 'what's wrong with me' for ten fucking years? Two: Why not, I dunno, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT? Oh, no, let me suffer. Everything will just work itself out, right? Jackasses.
My father could be damned rich if he didn't have a family. He does something called 'Paintless dent repair.' It means, you use long tools to remove the dents from the panels, or body, of the car. But usually, this will chip the paint. And replacing/repainting a car panel gets expensive. So people who are skilled at removing these dents WITHOUT needing to paint it are in high demand, and are payed well. Single job is hundreds of dollars. A bad car (From perhaps a hailstorm) could be 1000+.
Once you're practiced, you could do several every day and literally roll in money. You can travel, chase hailstorms, go on vacations, anything. He didn't want to teach me. Why the fuck not? Oh, because I would be taking his business if he brought me in to learn. Then just teach me like an intern, keep feeding me, and when I'm good enough, I'll FUCKING GO SOMEWHERE ELSE. WHY NOT? Oh, but no. I get to have whatever low paying job I can find, because my asshole father won't teach me his trade? Thanks.
Why does everyone look at me? They never say anything. What am I, a fucking painting? A statue?
Why did I have to be born in america? I had a huge chance to be born anywhere else in the freaking world. Thanks.
Why am I still typing? Eh. It's a bad day. I had been doing so good lately, it was statistically bound to happen sooner or later. Nobody has a good day every day.