6. Jump.

Image by Ron Erickson

So let's talk fear, people. Let's talk about how afraid we all are. Because that's what we are- terrified.

We are terrified out of our minds. We build monuments to our fears- white-picket fences, locks and bolts on our doors, security systems that keep strangers out of our houses and our families trapped within. We have our fade-resistant clothes detergents, instructional fashion magazines and actual classes on etiquette to teach us how to deal with people; how to look like a normal person. We have our interior decorators and our flower beds to stay on par with the Johnsons' interior decorator and flower beds. God forbid the Johnsons get ahead of us- if we're not at least as good as they are, then we're nothing! Just like the kids who don't go to college;the people who don't pay taxes to an barely effective government-you're nothing at all. We're nothing at all.

And that is the problem, folks. When did we become so afraid of being weird? Better yet, who was the one who decided that Mrs. Johnson's petunias were a mark of who she was as a person? A mark of how we, her neighbors without perfect petunias, are as a people? How did a piece of paper with the word 'Degree' on determine the futures of millions? Whose call was it to make young adults pay $40,000 a year to learn critical thinking skills? Because we young adults have been thinking about it pretty critically and have come to the brilliant conclusion that $40,000 is wrong.

Yes, the law says we have to pay taxes. You will be taken away in a car with screaming red-and-blue sirens if you don't. But who decided that? Who said we get to take the money you busted your ass for and funnel it into pork barrel legislation because we're the government? When did we allow ourselves to be sheep for the slaughter?

So is it fear-mongering that's got us so terrified? Is it the scowling politicians and economists on the television, muttering and raving about the worst economic downturn of our generation? Our so-called War on Terror? Is it the skinny models in the commercial ads that remind us you are not good enough to be on this television? Is it the parents shouting at you, tears in their tired eyes, what are you going to do than?

No. It's that we allowed some one else to define success. We let some corporate hot-shot's silver spoon blind us. You're nothing if you don't have the perfect chair, the perfect house, the perfect degree, the perfect children. You're nothing without your corner-office-with-a-view and your plastic-covered furniture. You're nothing if you work a job you hate toward a goal you don't care about with no plan for the future.

I say we throw it all out. I say we start over, guys.

Who needs the future? All it is a day-dream of tomorrow. It's nothing better than fantasy; a fancy- just another way to distance ourselves from the reality of today. Don't work hard for the future, for those kids or that house that you don't have yet. Work hard for you. Fight and bust your hull everyday for what makes you truly happy because no one else will - no one else will save you from our perpetual fall into incorporated unhappiness (despite its many health benefits).

I say keep college as cheap as you can- the name recognition of a big school may be a boost, but its your work ethic and personality that keeps a job. Focus on bettering yourself instead of your resume!

I say buy furniture on discount and move it into your house by yourself. No moving services. Mow the lawn yourself and finger paint your wall-hangings- the grass may be uneven and the paintings uncomplimentary to your walls, but their yours yours yours. Turn off the television and turn up the music. I say forget your love handles and eat a doughnut!

And it I know it's hard, because we were born afraid. We were born into a bright world with people clad in sea foam green yelling "its a girl!", "its a boy!". Yelling "she will need to be taught to be afraid of strange men and spiders!" Yelling "he will need to be taught to be afraid of crying and stray dogs!" The body that was your home for nine months is staring at you with a weary joy, the realization of her triumph prompting an internal promise. Thinking my child will be better than I am. I will do whatever it takes to make my child better than I am.

Well, I'm yelling now. I'm yelling and screaming because I don't want it. I don't want the better. Or perfect. Or new. I don't want the fence, the dog, the crew-cut grass. And damn it, I don't want to be afraid anymore.