Uniquely Normal

    Brian Mogeith has a disease.

    His affliction is not immediately recognizable since there are no physical symptoms, but the 5 foot 6 inch high school sophomore with curly black hair and light hazel eyes is affected by this curse each and every day:

    He can only speak in clichés.

    The severity of his ailment is certainly debatable, as most of the people occupying the planet are already as uninteresting as watery scrambled eggs and even less appealing. But his physiological inability to be “interesting” or “unique” leads to frequent bouts of depression, sudden attacks of anxiety, and (perhaps worst of all) the occasional browsing of self-help books, like the one resting on his bulky chest that he’d been engrossed in the night before.

    The alarm to his left had been squealing to awaken him, sending sonic waves of irritation into his screwed-up brain. He turned onto his side and pressed the “Off” button with the bottom of his weathered palm, angry that he’d forgotten to turn the clock off on a weekend again. The self-help tome, which was titled “You’ve Got the Power” and written by famed Indian author Shankar Kahn, slid onto the floor, landing helplessly next to other books of its kind.

    After months of tests, doctors had originally concluded that he could only speak in cliché because said brain had actually developed two “left sides.” According to most medical studies, the “right side” of a person’s brain is responsible for creativity and the ability to be random, both being traits he lacks. The “left side” is the counterbalance, dealing in logic and analyzation.

    However, those same doctors soon realized that he could not possibly have two left sides since one side would inevitably be on the right therefore making it the right side despite it’s left-sided nature, giving the child a left-right-brain and thereby obliterating the world’s notion of direction and leading to dramatic upticks in broken compasses and traffic accidents.

    Needless to say, the tests proved to be inconclusive and vastly confusing, and all involved were left without a right answer.

    Brian sat up and stretched his arms. He felt as if he were releasing moths of sleepiness from his ribcage, and he imagined them fluttering out through the slight opening of the window and being drowned in the gray deluge outside. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life,” he whispered to himself as he watched a sturdy-looking oak tree’s branches struggle to combat the heavy wind.

    Suddenly, something triggered inside him. Those words… those words mean something! They really do! They aren’t just silly lines used to sell silly books to silly people… they can change you!

    Evelyn’s visage flashed into his brain.

    In five minutes, he would no longer be single.

    Brian Mogeith, pimp of the century, was on the prowl!

    He found his cell phone, an outdated Motorola that hardly got any use, underneath his naughty magazines (K-mart catalogues.) He rarely called anybody, and even less rarely received a call, “less rarely” being a generous way of saying never.

    But before he knew it, that old piece of teletrash was dialing out to the love of his life, Miss Evelyn Watson. She had always been an understanding and caring friend, taking the time to get to know him and his brain-scrambled ways. She was one of the few people who knew of his affliction, and one of the fewer who thought it endearing. She was also smokin’ hot, with an especially nice-

    “Hey… B-Mo! What’s up?”

    Of course, in being so rash, he had not planned his attack. The conversation began horrifically for him:

    “What’s cookin’ good lookin’??” He immediately hated himself. He flared his nostrils and squished his cheeks to his head. He gritted his teeth in pain as if he’d been stung by a basketball-sized hornet. There was no turning back, however. A hang-up would only need explanation, which was something he was dreadful at.

    “Um… not much. The usual. Why are you calling so early?”

    “I need to spill the beans… you are the cat’s pajamas!” His self-loathing continued, as he was not sure the notion of feline bed garments got his point across in an effective manner. He made a mental note to smash his head against a wall after this massacre ended.
         
    “Oh… thanks. That’s sweet.”

    “We’re like peas in a pod. You have the keys to my heart.”

    He was finished, and he knew it. He felt like a balloon tied to a dartboard.

    “Definitely, friends forever! Anyway, I need to go… mow the lawn,” she said, obviously feeling a bit uncomfortable.

    He lowered his shoulders. “The grass is always greener,” he said in defeat.

    “Bye Brian!”

    “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” She hung up. His head hung down. He flipped the phone closed and tossed it onto a nearby pillow. Once again, his disease had foiled him. He fell on his side, head crashing to the mattress. His phone launched across the room and rolled with relative safety on the carpeted floor.

    In a world where the majority of the population strives to be “normal,” he could be nothing but. The ordinary was his life, the mediocre his destiny. His thoughts were as beautiful as his words were mundane, and he could do nothing to marry the two. The child with the two left-brains can’t come up with the right words.  He chuckled at his thought.

    A thought nobody would ever hear.