So, when your dad is a very highly recommended therapist and your mom is a Big Whig writer and she’s got a zillion of her self-help books lying around it’s hard not to feel a little bit inadequate.  I know they probably don’t mean to be so damn good at what they do in their business lives but me being me, knowing that they help so many people everyday, it just makes me feel a little bit less that par in this family.  Is there something more I could do?  Maybe I should actually pick up one of my mom’s books.  Nah, I don’t think so. 

Despite the fact I won’t fall for any of their therapeutic bullshit, I do recall mom always saying that everyone has a story to tell and that if the world were perfect everyone would write a book and tell his or her story, but you know what?  I can’t imagine that really being true. I mean, I do believe that everyone could tell a story, they could make it up if they were creative enough or write a help book if they were smart enough, but who would really want to read someone’s pitiful true life story?   Maybe if Harriet Tubman wrote a book or Anne Frank or someone really important, than I could see people reading their story, but what about my pastor?  What about the homeless man down the street?  Or the lady who works at McDonalds?  Even better, would anyone really want to read about me?  Who with a sensible mind or a Bachelors degree would want to spend any amount of time reading about some spoiled Floridian boy? It would be a waste of time and brain cells.  Hell, everyone else probably has a similar story.  How would that make mine original?  And worst of all, would anyone actually care to read my story?  Would I be worth remembering?   Nah.  It probably wouldn’t be very good book anyhow.

So mom in all her infinite wisdom was right.  Everyone has a story.  Wow mom, lets all just give you a round of applause for spending years upon years in school to figure that out.  The only problem is that just because everyone has a story doesn’t mean that every story is going to have a reader.  Who wants to read about the homeless man or the McDonalds lady?  Who really wants to read about the brat in Florida?  Not me.  And if you were smart, you wouldn’t want to either.  I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.