How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

I mean, who isn’t a writer in the figurative sense of the word?

“The thing about bigots is they always go out of their way to acknowledge my fabulous existence, when I hardly notice theirs.”

It made me wonder if we owe our parents that kind of simple, unfiltered happiness for the rest of our lives. Why couldn’t they find our hiccups now as cute as they were back then? Who had changed—them or me?

I love my parents; I realize that now more than ever. I will always love them, and I will always be their son. But I have to be my own person, too.

It’s hard enough living one life; no one should have to go through the trouble of living two.