Asterisks are those little stars like this: *. They are not to be confused with a French comic book character. Anyway, I'm sorry that I ever wrote the following bit of rubbish, so don't ask me for interpretations on it. It's only here for two reasons: to serve as filler and to justify the time I spent writing it. So do me a favor and take it all lightly.

* * *

Wearily, he sat down at the computer. He had nothing new to say. He fired up his CD player, having no use for an MP3 player but desiring sonic pleasure from an old disc. After a long hesitation, he began to type.

This is crap, he thought. I have nothing to say today. I had nothing to say yesterday either. Or the day before. What does that show?

Did he really have nothing interesting to say? He could pour out one of his angsty musings one more time, though he was sure that the readers had already tired of it. Still, they were an old standby. It wasn't that he had it tough; he didn't. The problem was that he had it too good. He never grew up in adversity. He had worked hard up in school up to this point.

One demerit for no homework. Five demerits would get you a detention. No corporal punishment at school, just at home on that rare occasion. The whole thing stuck with him. "Be a slave to the System," he was told, "and the System will reward you. Do everything the System tells you, and you will go far. The System knows what is right. So get on your knees for the System. If not, then you, just a boy, will become a lesser man."

He was freer now. He thought that he had torn apart the walls that formed a labyrinth as an impediment in his mind. But there was another wall, stretching across the reaches of his mind, on which logic had no effect. The stones of the barrier of illogic had been laid long ago when the conditions were just right. Engraved on every single brick was a platitude.

Axe in hand, he could not bring himself to pick away at the wall. For every time he went to take a swing, another platitude would catch his eye: "You can do whatever you want." "Hard work pays off." The one he was about to hit would always read: "You're making a mistake."

The words haunted him. He had made mistakes: some major, some minor. But his worst fear was not the memories of his past mistakes, but the idea that he was in the process of making mistakes right now. At this very moment, a big mistake was compounding, snowballing, from a tiny mistake that would gradually add on baggage, day after day, week after week, and into the months and years.

The fault lay not with him, but with the System. "Do your best," said the System, "while finishing everything on your plate. You must honor the System. The system forbids irreverance." Once again, the foundations of the destroyed walls called back like scars in his brain. He thought that he had rid himself of this. But it had only slipped away and come back in another form, like a cancer.

And what of the future? The System was beating him now. "You must be a jack of all trades," the System had told him. But every waking hour of every day it became more increasingly, painfully clear that he could not. He could not handle being an intellectual giant, a physical wonder, and the life of the party. There was no room on his plate for all that. More than ever, attempt to fill himself up left him emptier than ever.

He felt as though he had nowhere left to turn. For what he needed most was the peace of mind brought by a bond between souls, or whatever it was that made the body work. But he was undesirable. He had nothing to offer but feelings. No one would consider him, standing in the corner, in the same way as he hoped. Feelings should have been enough, but the prospects -- the precious few -- demanded too much: biology, security. Things he lacked, either due to his own misfortune or due to the influence of the System on him.

The System's words repeated themselves in his mind again. "Save it," it had said. "You'll be happier later." Would he? "This is your job." No, it wasn't enough. Everyone else knew it somehow. It was enough for them.

It was then that he realized his tragic flaw. No, he was not lucky. No one should envy him. There was nothing there to be envied. For he had never done the things that the System had told him to do. As long as the rest of the world listened to the System, he would have to too. Here his obligation to become a functioning member of society had yet to be fulfilled. He could not bring himself to go and live.

In his mind he could imagine things as they wished to be. He would clear the murky tub of math formulas and historical names. He would make himself attractive, even irresistible. But what was stopping him? Fear. Though it was hard to admit, he yearned for his past even more than he cared about his future. Yes, how he wished to live forever the way things were, with all the love he could get and without a worry in the world. How he wished to crawl back into his bed and sleep.

* * *

And this is my problem in plain English. As much as I want to live out my days in success, I can't face the hard parts of the future. I'm focusing on living day to day, putting all my effort on school without giving a care about what really matters -- my ability to make it in the world. I'm kicking myself in the face by choosing hard classes that are going to inhibit my life in the present more than they will help me in the future. (But of course, it all goes back to my upbringing.) And I'm afraid that the problems that hurt me now will be hard to fix later.

As much as I would like to be in love, I'm probably the worst possible candidate for Boyfriend of the Year Month Week. Girls want security and pampering. I have no job/money and can't drive. But I don't want to face the pressure of learning to drive or getting a job. And so, while the world is passing me by, I grow more and more angsty and the need for companionship grows. It's a goddam vicious cycle. That's what I'm trying to get at. And you know what it's from? It's from me living a sheltered life. Whose fault that is, I don't know. But does that matter? I don't know.

I'll tell you what matters. I'm going to say it here. This is my sad attempt at a barbaric yawp: I, Jordon Kallich, am afraid of growing up.

Feedback from James Joyce's Submission of Ulysses to His Creative Writing Workshop. It's probably only funny if you've read Ulysses. You know who you are. I don't intend on tackling the massive work. Ever. Sorry.

How to Anger Telemarketers That Call You at Home. At our home we have a simpler solution: don't pick up the phone if the caller ID doesn't give the number. Works every time.