Not a Bestseller

Doom in the Form of a Dude and Julia White

Everyone has problems. People starve and die. Astronauts decide it's cool to land on the moon, so they get trapped in some spacecraft miles from the earth's atmosphere. Overachievers try to reach the highest mountain peaks or swim the length of the Amazon. Superheroes decide that people are worth saving. Villains decide that people are worth killing.

But, my hateful friend, my problem proved beyond all of these. It was the morning of the big interview with Dr. White, and I didn't want to get out of bed.

Seriously. Did. Not. Want. To.

My hand slammed on that snooze button until it was an involuntary reaction. Six o'clock. Eight fourteen. Nine...Black dots.

When I glanced up and found a blurry four-digit number with two thick smudges between them, I stretched for the outlet. The scratchy cord surfaced my fingers, and I yanked. The bleeping stopped.

I smiled. Better than a snooze button any day.

Unfortunately, Tiny Person refused to shut up.

I stayed there, awake, staring at the ceiling, my back to the pillow. Waiting for a frantic parent to rush upstairs and shove me over. I clicked on my stereo, let a Canadian punk-rock band blast through my door. Maybe Mom would charge for my bedroom, ask what the fudge I was still doing in bed. Maybe Dad would spray me with a hose or something. I'd take Ed running me over with the car at this point.

Were they even home?

Ten minutes later, I got up. The rest of my day went as follows...

(You're welcome to just skim over it. That's what I did when I wrote it. As long as you know I'm a loser, it's fine.)

Eat.

Watch TV.

Think about the most complicated concepts of the universe.

Read and eat.

Plug my alarm back in but forget to reset the clock.

Eat.

Chill by the fountain and resort to people watching.

Take the long way around to avoid the store with the fat man.

Send Kyle a letter and remember that I didn't reset my clock.

Purposely don't reset the clock as punishment for its annoyingness.

Click the desk lamp in the basement on and off until my finger hurts.

Check my watch.

Realize I'm not wearing a watch.

Put on my watch.

Watch my alarm clock blink 12:00...12:00...12:00.

Realize that it's actually four-thirty.

Lock myself in my room.

That was my Saturday, give or take. Now that I was in my bedroom, I would do everything in my power not to come out. I eyed the extension cord wrapped around the curtain-poll. Maybe I could tie myself to one of the legs on my bed. That way, when I didn't come downstairs, I wouldn't be responsible for my actions.

"Ben!" Mom shouted, "Dr. White just pulled in."

I collapsed onto my bed. My fingers grappled a book I didn't recognize, some old Shakespearean thing one of my tutors had sent. I flipped to the last page and scanned over the scribble.

Oh, yeah, pause for a second.

You know how whenever you read a book, you always hate the ending? I have a full-proof method so I never have to take a risk with a novel. I always read the last chapter, paragraph, or sentence. That way I'll know if the author is an idiot wasting my time or an artist at work.