Although I wake, my eyes do not open. I don’t tell them not to open, they’re just not feeling it yet; most mornings are like this. I can hear my family bustling downstairs, feel the sunlight bursting through the open window I forgot to curtain last night, smell the fermented puffs of hot morning breath whiffing from my mouth to my nostrils. I want to get up, hell I need to get up, but my body just isn’t feeling it. My limbs are heavy and immobile, my torso’s a slab of concrete, and my hair isn’t bound in a ponytail, meaning it’s everywhere. I’ll probably have to pull a few strands of it out of my mouth – and probably one or two out of my eyes, too – when I get up.
I don’t know that you’ve ever pulled a hair out of your eye, but let me tell you, it is the most unsettling feeling a human is capable of experiencing. Especially if it’s a long hair you’re extracting. It usually goes like this: you feel something razor thin beneath your eyelid and you think Oh, an eyelash. Lemme grab that quick. Then, as you pull it free, you feel the hidden eight inches of the shit squirm its way out of the miniscule pocket between your eye and its lid that you didn’t even know existed, and then you take a cold shower because you got thirty-one different flavors of violated by a strand of simple proteins, one that grew from your own head, no less.
Maybe this is why my eyes don’t want to open – although I can’t feel the spindly bastards yet, I know my hairs are in there waiting for me, patient, dying to prematurely take the good out of my morning. Or maybe my bed is just toasty and I’m subconsciously recognizing that I’m almost halfway through my twenties now, that the part of my life during which I can wake up on a Wednesday and stay in bed for as long as I want is probably coming to an end, that I need to enjoy this while I still can no matter what, eye hairs be damned.
Here I lie, then, under the covers and outside of time, blanketed in warmth as I hold the snooze button on the rest of life not because I want to, nor because I need to, but solely because I can.
I am up and Adom. Normally my first thing in the morning routine involves opening all my windows, reading a chapter or two of a book, meditating for twenty minutes, then having a smoothie before I start working. Not today. Today my mind is flayed because I’ve yet to start the rewrite of this book. I want the project to be done and over with and, for better or worse, there’s only one way to make that happen: I need to start working on it right this second.
Looking out my open window instead of at my computer screen, I notice today’s sky is the kind of overcast where you can see chunky folds in the water vapor, yet the sun shines through anyway. That’s a good way to be, isn’t it? You don’t look like much – in fact, you come off about as mediocre and unassuming as possible – but yet your light shines on through anyway.
To be honest, hypothetical reader, I’m trying to say something with all these descriptions of my obscure morning tribulations which, for all you know, I just made up off the top of my head. This book will go one of two ways: either it will be a hassle you don’t understand and are kind of afraid of, or it will be the muddy rock you find in the woods that turns out to be a gemstone after you clean it up. Maybe you’ll feel the same way no matter how this book goes, who knows? Maybe I’ll get to the point eventually, or maybe I won’t. Hey, maybe a meteor will strike and the world will go kaput… or maybe I’ll smoke some marijuana and eat pizza all day instead of doing this, hah!
Just kidding, I don’t do any drugs and I’m not going to hold my breath for any meteors. In an effort to not prematurely repeat myself, I am an author with the initials HOW, and a handful of months ago, I wrote and self-published two books: one about running, and this one, Roadtrip. I then unpublished them both and wallowed in self-loathing, self-pity, and Lyme-disease-derived psychosis until one day I suddenly found myself cured of Lyme disease. This sudden lack of corkscrew bacteria eating my brain into insanity lead me to establish a publishing company for myself, shout to The Hillside Commons, which then motivated me to rewrite and republish the running book. Now I’m rewriting this book so I can republish it too, because cycles.
But, see, the running book? I rewrote that one for a reason. The first edition was shit and reeked of self-victimization, so I made it less shitty and called it |The Unvictimized Edition|. The Roadtrip book, though… I don’t think the first edition was all that bad. There’s not a real reason to do a rewrite. Plus, there’s this other tiny little project I’ve been working on for three years that’s dying to get released, so I must ask myself the following question in the form of the text you’re currently reading: “WHY AM I WASTING TIME REWRITING THE ROADTRIP BOOK?!”
Because, Hunter who wrote that last paragraph, your existence is not solely for the sake of your benefit. This book is both dedicated to and about your friends, yet they never got to read it. Know who else never got to read it? grandMother! Because when you originally published the book, you were Lyme-shit crazy and you didn’t tell any human beings aside from those living in your parents’ house, nor did you make any semblance of an announcement about it whatsoever!
So gUeSs WhAt!
Today, the twenty-first day of the August of the year 2019, you are taking a drive up to grandMother’s house to read her the original Roadtrip. Then, you’ll interweave the story of you reading Roadtrip to G-Mah with the story of the original Roadtrip, and then you will republish the new and improved book as Roadtrip: The ¡Gramango! Edition, because grandMother has a cat named Mango and Mango is fantastic.
And that’s just how this is going to be.
Hi there. It’s about two hours later. I’m at grandMother’s house now. Sorry for abruptly cutting out there, the whole writing to myself thing was getting unsettling and I needed to get away from it quick. Mango is currently perusing my ankles, the TV is off, and we’re ready to go. I don’t know what to say, so let’s get to it: The ¡Gramango! Edition.
“Hah,” grandMother laughs, grabbing for her coffee. She knows this will be a long visit. “Mango was walkin’ through my ankles earlier and I looked down and it was just orange, her fur was everywhere, all over my pants. Ahhhhh, shit!”
As grandMother reminisces, I look out the closed window and see Uncle Bill walking down the road towards grandMother’s lower driveway. I didn’t know he was also visiting grandMother today, what a nice surprise!
I revert my attention to grandMother and attempt to begin, but I find myself at a loss for words. I would say the cat’s got my tongue, but I don’t think that’s exactly possible; Mango seems to be hovering, literally floating in the air above the kitchen table. Her legs dangle in a way so her paws rest lightly on top of my laptop’s screen. The plot thickens… okay I should really start this.
This has been the forward of the book Roadtrip: The ¡Gramango! Edition. Here is everything you need to know about it:
The ¡Gramango! Edition
- A satirical travel novella about an author reading the actual travel novella to his grandmother
- Book stats:
– 202 pages
– 37,117 words
– Spiral: The Highest One Writing | Arc: II
– Series: W-63 | Entry: 2
– Revision Date: June 10, 2021
- Click here to read the book for free
- Buy from Amazon:
– eBook: $2.50
– Paperback: $5.46
- Buy from The Hillside Commons:
– Signed Paperback: $14.00
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~