Any chance my Magic Sherpa came
early and dressed me like this so I
could one day form my own religious
faction and have this be the symbol?
Those of you who know me may know I have never been a religious man (Those of you who don’t, thanks for reading anyway!). That’s not to say that I am not a very moral and ethical person; I’m just not religious. I have always thought that maybe, just maybe, religion was created to explain the inexplicable. It would make sense. But this piece isn’t about being preachy or starting debates or resurrection, or mountain Gods or goat’s blood. I love religion. I think it helps everyone involved become who they are and, at the very least, it spreads (mostly) great morals. But through the years, I have become who I am by coming up with my own answers. My own theories. My own religion.
When picking a motto to live by, it is a horrible and bitter realization when you come across another cliché that acts as a contradictory statement.
Nice guys finish last.
“Hmm… Maybe I should be a dick, I don’t want to finish last.”
The good die young.
“Yep, no time to be good and die young while finishing last. Being nice and good sounds like an absolutely awful idea…”
He who hesitates is lost.
“Excellent. Act on impulse. I like it.”
Patience is a virtue.
“Wait… So which route do I take here? Man, does this count as hesitating?”
So, which do you pick? They say that your late teens to late twenties are the years you find yourself and figure out who you really are. I am 24 and have no idea who I am. I wake up in the mornings sometimes and think to myself, “When I grow up, I want to be a---,” then I snap back to reality when I notice, “Shit. I am grown up.” Do I have to actively search for myself? Or should I just hang out and hope he finds me? Not only do I secretly hope a Magic Sherpa shows up one night and tells me what to do for a career, but also that this Magic Sherpa might tell me who I am going to be as a person when I grow up. I have come to believe in this Magic Sherpa.
This girl's Sherpa was asked to leave shortly after this
I wonder if this Magic Sherpa doesn’t guide me, but actually dictates who I become. In that case I really hope I don’t get the child molestation Sherpa. I mean, if this is the age where one is to find himself, it must be a very bitter realization for all of the creepers who wake up and realize a Magic Sherpa commandeered their personality and they think “Damn… I am going to be a serial killer.” Or “Damn… I like to eat people.” Or “Damn… I really like to wear my hair with a bump in the front so that it looks like I may have a severely misshapen head.” (Ladies, you know who you are.) There has to be something else to blame it on. Nay, someone. The Magic Sherpa.
Sometimes, in life, you do stupid things. Embarrassing things. Things that you hope never come back to haunt you. Some of these things might include: growing a moustache and chronicling it on the internet, wearing JNCO jeans, having a bowl cut, listening to copious amounts of gangster rap, listening to very girly music (like, really girly), liking Gilmore Girls, blow-drying a cat, eating a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts right before you eat two foot-long meatball subs and then going swimming, rocking a fluorescent orange rat tail, wearing baggy sweat pants that looked like Lark Voorhies and Dustin Diamond were going to jump off of the pattern, etc. These are all things that Royligion can forgive and forget. The Magic Sherpa knows that was who you were, not who you are. He is here to guide you, hopefully down the right path.
Are you here to provide me with
creative writing advice? Or are
you going to try to convince me I
should be committing genocide
of some sort
I fathom my Sherpa is a bit of an ass, but has good intentions. He’s a bit loud, a bit self-deprecating, but all in all, he’s a pretty kick ass Sherpa. Maybe my Sherpa has been around longer than most, but has failed to tell me who to become due to his nasty procrastination habit. Maybe he came to me when I was four and taught me to ride a bicycle. Maybe whenever I smell chicken noodle soup, he goes and checks to make sure it’s really soup and not someone with BO that smells like chicken noodle soup before I say “Mmm, that soup smells delicious.” Maybe in college, he brainwashed my entire University into thinking they should give me a degree in Mathematics. But, despite all of this, he knows his window of opportunity to enlighten me as to who I really am (and will remain) for the rest of my life is closing. And though he sounds ridiculous, and I imagine him to look a little like an ethnic Great Gazoo, he gives me something to believe in and something to look forward to; He gives me faith.
One day, when he decides it’s time, maybe then he will show me how to right my wrongs. He will teach me to play the guitar. He will show me how to write more better. He will show me what I really want to do when I grow up…