In as quickly as one could ever possibly fathom, my life was taken from me. My life was blessed with the inclusion of devices that one many find necessary in the fast-paced society you and I live in today. How I will ever adapt to the new life my father has decided is most suited for our family; I do not know. One cannot simply adapt into an underdeveloped situation characterized by its crudeness and primitive ways when born into the modernly ordained life we all take for granted. But this, by order of my father’s decree, shall be my life for the next three months as we begin our new life in the wilderness of Oregon so we can, as my father so put it, “reconnect as a family”.
We have always been a fast-paced family that focuses very much on what we were doing and we alone. Why should I give a damn about what my little shit of a younger brother is up to? All he ever does is sit in his room and read. I always tell him if he wants to fit in he should pull his fat head out of a book and go hang out with someone and get some fresh air. My efforts to help are always met with the same snide remark from my mother, “Collin, just leave your brother alone for once!” Her requests are to no avail, however, because come the next day I will suggest the same alternative and be met with the same silence from Dustin, and the same cease-and-desist order from my parents.
My father, Allen Weaver, is an esteemed professor for the rather prestigious Reed University; a private liberal arts college located in the oh-so-great city of Portland in which my mother and father raised my brother and me. My mother, Dawn Snyder Weaver, portrays the image that I’m sure could be portrayed as the typical “American Housewife” who cooks, cleans, nurtures, and constantly posts on Facebook her oh-so outspoken opinion on the latest episode of The Bachelor. My brother, Dustin, is clearly seen as the far superior child in the structure of my so-called “loving family”. In the scenario of most American households, with some exceptions, the junior child is often expected to live up to the achievements and accomplishments of the elder sibling. In the case of my family unit, however, my parents constantly insist I take a page out of my baby brother’s book and focus more studying and reading rather than the social life I have worked so very hard to perfect. While my brother has yet to immerse himself into any visual evidence that he has made any attempt to make friends with those around him, my life can easily be characterized by the large amounts of time invested into the social media I hold so near and dear.
Consequent of our individualized activities, our family is far from a family. I could not tell you the subject of which my father is a well renowned professor of, nor would I be willing to bet my mother could recall my own middle name upon immediate request. These traits may not be attributed to the average American family, but as I so mentioned earlier, my “family” is far from a family. The Weaver household has gone several days sitting at the dinner table without making a comment consisting so much of: “How was your day?” Instead, the four of us sit there with I in my cell phone and my mother in hers, my father on his iPad, and of course, the sheer perfection that has manifested itself into the configuration of my younger brother is nose-deep in his Kindle reading some queer book composed of warlocks and shit. Not ever once have I ever thought to break this mold, as I am perfectly happy without my mother inquiring about my math test, or my father pestering me about some chore that must be accomplished over the weekend.
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