WEEK 127
Prompt:
You're taking a road trip in a 5 seater car. Each seat is filled with you, but at different points of your life. One of you strikes up a conversation.
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"So which one of you decided to screw up my, or should I say, our life?"
"I thought all of us did?" said one of me.
"Bro it was not! It was totally thirteen-year-old us. I would never."
"I would never, either. I swear I've grown from all that...screwing up, you know," said eighteen-year-old me with a frown.
"And it wasn't me," thirteen-year-old me whined from the back. (Are you sure about that?)
"As long as we have apple juice and pokemon cards life is not screwed at all!" said eight-year-old me. (The secret of a happy life, there! See? Eight-year-old us has it right.)
It appears that hardly any of the different versions of myself had any answers to that first question, though at the same time, I'm very sure they had all screwed up with something in life in one way or another.
"God, I really was this annoying when I was younger," came a mumble from the thirty-eight-year-old me in the driver's seat. (Now do a lot of your memories make sense, hmm?)
Present me, that is fifty-year-old me, nods at thirty-year-old me next to me from the passenger seat; I suppose he was the first to ask that question about screwing up initially.
The driving seat was empty (Eh? Thirty-eight-year-old me where'd you go?!), perhaps a representation for our lack of direction. At what point did we "screw up"? That was the question present in our hearts and instinctively blame started to, unfairly, be passed along to every passenger as if it were a roadmix. (That's a good metaphor!)
"Remember when you quit smoking?" The fifty-year-old me nodded sagely at the thirty-year-old me, sipping his coffee. "That's the only thing I can think of when looking at the brighter side of not screwing life up." (Is no one phased with the fact of who's driving the car and where thirty-eight-year-old me went? Hmm? No?)
Thirty-year-old me smiled slightly at the statement before saying, "And also the time I got divorced at twenty-eight? Gosh, how free I felt afterwards! Got to be the best decision I've ever made. Does that count as 'not screwing up'?"
"Wait, why...why would we get divorced? We can hardly attract anyone in middle school!" the thirteen-year-old me complained.
"Because the ex-wife tried to eat my rice krispies cereal without my consent; she's a diabolical witch and I'm glad I divorced her by burning her at the stake for attempting to rob me of my delicious and nutritious breakfast!" (Excuse me?! Where did that come from?)
"NOT THE RICE KRISPIES CEREAL!" screams the eight-year-old.
"Wait, since when was that my favorite?"
"Since childhood, dummy! What could ever top Rice Krispies?!"
"Well, but like, what about Fruit Loops?" thirteen-year-old me asked stupidly. (I mean, Fruit Loops did taste better than Rice Krispies. Until you realize that all of them have the same flavor.)
"They taste like cardboard!" someone shouted from the kitchen. (Either that someone has a very loud voice, or there's a kitchen in the car, and I'm not exactly sure which is worse.)
"Who the hell would try tasting cardboard?" (Me. Most kids at one time, probably. It doesn't taste half bad, just...very much like paper?)
"And when did we get a kitchen in the car?" (So it's the latter option. Oh dear.)
"Who knows. I'm still trying to fathom sitting with all versions of myself." The eldest version of myself shrugged. "Maybe we're dying." (I like that headcanon. Let's go with that; it'd explain this madness.)
"Maybe we screwed up life because our ex-wife stole our rice krispies," thirteen-year-old me states decidedly. (Or maybe because, I don't you, you burned her at stake? That might have a teensy bit to do with it, don't you think?)
"What ex wife? Were teens," someone else responds.
"Teens? Bro we have been in the afterlife for centuries," says a skeleton that came out of a magical closet. (You know what? Sure. There's a closet in here.)
"If I'm not dead already, I'll soon be, because this is far too much for my heart to handle," the fifty-years old me said and theatrically clutched at his chest. (Valid reaction. Reality is melting in here anyway.)
"Um, where are we going?" the eight-year-old me suddenly asked, noticing how the car never stopped.
"Bruh we're dead, lmaooo," the skeleton said laying down on the car. (Eldest's headcanon is making more and more sense.)
Suddenly, the car flies off a cliff. And crashes into the river, leaving the person in the trunk confused and terrified. (As they should be. This car has a kitchen.)
"What the heck just happened?" teenage me says.
"Hello?" A man walks to the crashed car and asks, "Is this my Uber driver?"
A cacophonic NO echoed in the midst of a lazy, "Yes."
"Why not," the twenty-four-year-old me grumbled. "We could always do with some quick cash."
Eventually the consensus was no because the car was totaled and everyone had to start an epic journey to the nearest civilization.
(Who will survive? Is the nearest civilization the afterlife? Will the guy ever get his Uber? Find out nex— gets dragged away.) End of part one.
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A Land of Tales and Dreams
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