My Life as a Machine: Irritated Machine

He irritated me so, I felt my gears begin to creak. I feared he heard them, but he liked to listen to himself talk, the slight sweat on my brow evaporated in a moment. “I don’t like taking advise from writers,” he plowed forward, crossing his arms like he owned the world. His brow arched and the way he looked through me struck me as completely and utterly unapologetic.

“Other writers always want to change the story. They always have something to say just to make it seem like they’re better writers than me. Readers just read the story to enjoy it. Writers always want to change something.”

I was getting really irritated by that point. For one, he talked insistently about his story and anything else I brought up like he knew everything with the grandest of knowledge. It was when we broke into a discussion about financial aid that I realized how stiffly he spoke.

Then, as we searched my vehicle in the parking lot, he began to rumble on about how he didn’t really need a college degree and how he could make it if he published a good enough comic book or story. I mean, I’m normally turned off by guys with no ambitions. However, this guy was insane. Survive in this world without a degree? It’s plausible, but it’s not as easy as publishing a stupid story. Even I, an artist, have a background in physical therapy. It wasn’t easy, but if required, I could jump into the field without holding back four to five years in remedial training. I was already annoyed by the time we reached my car.

Although everything seemed fine by the time we reached his home. It was after I scanned the synopsis he wrote, I was unable to hold back my annoyance. His story was cliche and predictable. On top of that, it was written at such a novice’s level, I almost laughed to break the irritation. How could someone speak like he owned the world, yet, what was revealed to me was unimpressive? It wasn’t that I was better or anything than him. “People write at different levels,” I admitted to him aloud.

I think it was the way he spoke, so sure that the world revolved around him, that irritated me to no end. I understood exactly what Maya Angelou meant when her father in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings spoke unapologetic. Do all people speak in such a manner? It almost makes me want stomp people with my foot for speaking to anyone like they were superior to others.

I suppose my irritation stemmed from his perspective. He believed he stood against the rest of the world, though he refused to acknowledge that he, a person, dwelled within the very world he tried to avoid. Ironically, the world would accept him wholeheartedly because he was, in fact, a person, a part of the people. He spoke in such a way, I immediately recalled the movies about racism and prejudices. Men, women, and even children spoke in the similar fashion–like they knew everything and were better people than others–until something tragic happened to their bigot lives. It shook me then, and I gritted my teeth for hating those warped personas walking amidst. I knew then I wasn’t safe.

In hearing him speak, I was irritated in finding that same tone within my boyfriend. He simply didn’t understand everything that he thought. I watched him. Not once did he really address me unless I hurled something into his speech. My gears finally came undone when I realized how unnerving to see someone think they could bulldoze through life with their ideas alone. I, as a machine, would have to work twice as hard. I would require a degree. I couldn’t ake the chance of not having a degree. It was enough being a machine.

I clutched my keys, swung my purse onto my shoulder, and stood up. “I’m leaving.” I didn’t wait for him. I just started to walk down the hallway.

“What? Where are you going?” he called after me, finally moving more than his body to his own accord. He followed me down the corridor.

“What type of writer doesn’t listen to the advice of other writers?” I nearly cried.


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