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10 Reasons Why I Shouldn't Write My Own Life Story


  1. My feet get really sweaty sometimes; even when it's cold outside. And I don't like it.

  1. Sometimes people mistake me for a girl because of my lengthy hair. It's not something I'm proud of. That's why I like going a few days without shaving. 
  1. My greatest feat is probably writing this list. You're welcome.
  1. I eat entirely too much pork roll. In the summer it's more than breakfast – it's lunch and dinner, too. Thus my life expectancy is half that of a smoker's. I think I'm excessively obsessed.
  1. Most of my time is spent reading books, watching movies, eating, playing video games, sitting on the beach and wishing I was good at hockey. And sleeping, I forgot sleeping.
  1. I forget things pretty easily. For instance, if I was writing a novel, I most likely wouldn't remember the beginning. Is that normal? I don't know. But what I do know is that I can't remember what the first few points on this list were without reading back.
  1. I have never met anyone famous. I think the closest thing I have as far as meeting a person with pop idol status is the fact that my neighboring town's high school is home to Jack Nicholson. My mailing address is the same town, but I didn't go to that school because of town boundaries. So I guess that counts for something.
  1. I have unfortunately still not matured enough to stop laughing at the word 'poop.' Therefore most of the book would involve sex jokes and humor involving bodily functions.
  1. I sleep naked.
  1. My entire life centralizes around this list. Thus when I express the fact that my feet get sweaty in some of the most unusual conditions, it takes some time before I realize that it probably just depends on the type of footwear I have on. So I lay awake at night, waiting to fall asleep, thinking about why my feet sweat. Eventually it occurs to me that my long hair is probably the reason for some of the warm temperatures and I decide I should probably cut it. But I never do. However, this would stop people from mistaking me for the opposite sex; although I don't exactly know how someone with broad shoulders, a beard and defined muscles can be mistaken for a girl. So naturally I don't fall asleep until late and I end up waking up around noon where the only thing left in the refrigerator is pork roll. Of course I spend an hour or two digging in the cabinets for some sort of remnants of leftovers but always find my attempts vain. Then (after getting some sort of life-blood coffee into my veins) I sit down trying to write and can only come up with reasons NOT to write, which doesn't make any sense to me at all, so I waste time reading or watching movies. I rot my mind with PlayStation for hours on end, then somehow manage to pry myself away from the controller only to find the laptop under my fingertips again. "Oh! Great!" is the first thing I can think because I figure I can write something after I check my email for a couple of hours. Wrong. After those couple of hours I end up writing stories about fake diseases, how much I hate seagulls, lighting things on fire and sushi made out of dolphin meat. Some of these could be a cool concept, but with my extreme lack of skills they aren't. So I select all the words in the document and press backspace, followed by a quick movement of keystrokes that spell out the word 'poop.' I laugh. I can't stop laughing. Why can't I stop laughing? I'm nearly a quarter of a century old and I can't stop laughing at 'poop.' Thus proving my point that whenever I write I somehow manage to continually involve sex jokes and fecal humor without even trying. I guess Freud was kind of right, even though I hate that dumb bastard for trying to imply his own sick fetishes onto mankind. And still, I feel like I will never write anything of any sort of importance. The closest I will ever get to fame is knowing where Jack Nicholson did his homework as a kid. So again, I find myself in bed, naked, writing a list of nonsense that no one will ever completely understand (most likely because my snore-fest will pull their attention elsewhere) and yet I can't help but wonder why I still feel like I'm not even really trying. All this laziness is causing me to get fat and I don't like it. I guess I'm blaming it on myself. So you know what? Fuck that. I will write my life's story.

Glen is the fiction/nonfiction editor of New Jersey based literary magazine, Lo-Fidelity. Currently he resides at the beach where he spends his time yelling at clouds. Check out his blog at