box of Jack

I am updating and re-posting old blog entires with new titles.
This was originally posted on 30 May 2004 and was titled Franklin is Crying.

Franklin has spent his night crying. The last time he cried was during a sweat-soaked afternoon hauling a broken cupboard from his uncle’s truck to an arbitrary place in his front yard. The splintered frame had slipped through his hands and on to his toe. No broken bones but he did have a purple toe for two months and somewhere along the way had lost the toenail, curiously enough.

So he’s crying right now; as you are reading this. Franklin’s tears are the deep, cutting sort of pain that he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life. He may grow up to be an happy and fulfilled adult but eventually he’s going to see a black and white film where a wizened old man cries over a lifetime of regrets and he’ll remember this singular moment in time. He’s going to say to himself, “I feel the same pain,” and then he’ll put his hand on his heart and do the best to blink back tears.

Why is he upset? Well, the thing is—it’s sort of embarrassing—but the thing is that Franklin’s condoms have expired. Yeah… it’s not really something he should be crying about but the little guy has been trying really hard. He bought this twelve-pack exactly sixteen months ago, just a little after his 17th birthday because he thought 17 was a nice, sensible age to start engaging in drunken, pseudo-consensual intercourse and otherwise scoring hotties.

It was a great plan and Franklin should be proud that he’s so conscious about safe sex and all. In an age where hardcore smut has become the de facto method of sexual education and abstinence is the only recommendation, Franklin is a shining example to teens everywhere. The problem is that umm… sex involves two people. For the past sixteen months, it’s been Franklin and his hand solo. Two months ago he went out with Maria (the one with the waist-length hair, not the skinny one) but that lasted for about three dates (and two quick kisses) before they broke it off.

So that’s why Franklin is crying; because he gave himself sixteen months to get laid and he failed. All he has to show for it is a box of eleven discrete little sex balloons (he used up one as practice, just in case).

So as bad as life gets, spare a thought for Franklin and his now-unsafe condoms. They will be disposed of in the household garbage, stuffed inside an empty bag of Dorito’s and pushed to the bottom; so that his parents won’t see.