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Genius is a reality. There is no doubt in my mind that what often seems an elusively immaterial ideal is in fact a hard and true fact of life. I know this because I once was lucky enough to work with a mind so superior to my own that I am shamed by even the slightest consideration of myself as adequately endowed. Timmy had it all. Every inch of what is desirable in a human being. Born with unparralled looks, brains and braun, he managed to overcome the shackles of his boring middle class upbringing to hone his natural skills to a fine edge. An edge so sharp it cut through the mundane as a hot knife through through hot air. I am the opposite. I was born with nearly non-existent natural facilities, with parents who were abusive and often violent. I was raised in a web of lies. Despite being gifted with what can only realistically be seen as an environment entirely condusive to the growth of a youthful spirit, I have never managed to take that opportunity and use it for anything more than failure. I often wish things were different. I often wish I was Timmy. Timmy was the type of man who is endlessly inundated with the affection of women. I have always been jealous. Do you know how difficult it is to watch gorgeous ladies throw themselves at the feet of that superhuman piece of man meat? I never blamed Timmy, but it still had an emotional effect none the less. My stomach turned every time he would joking describe the latest modelesque beauty who had begged him for relations. I would attempt to come to terms with my lot in life and the inevitable comparisons which arose from such a friendship, but every excuse I gave myself was a slim defense against the demi-god named Timothy Turner. This is a man who once had two women ask him to marry them in the same month. Two women who he had accidently courted online while in the midst of the type of deep personal exploration usually only attempted by timeless intellects such as Moses, Socrates and Plato. This was a man who created so effortlessly that I only even attempted to create in his presense because of his constant kind words. If you have ever had to suffer though my attempts to push pen along paper you would understand just how complete his commitment was to building the confidence of the less than talented. I still even dare to write today because of Timmy. "I dont want to sound conceited, but Im a better writer than anyone Ive ever met," has never sounded so much like a battle cry for the talentless lovers of the creative process. It was simply a timeless truth, a truth which I have often looked back to in times of doubt. Who am I to try to create? Someone who Timmy befriended. That has always been enough to rescue my floundering sense of self-worth. College was less a means to an end for Timmy and more of a cruel punishment for his singular style. "I hate college," he would say and I knew it was for all the right reasons. "I feel as though I cant have a single coherent discussion on any subject." He was right. Every single one of the 18,000 people who attended his state college were idiots compared to him. He could have excelled in each and every subject, aced all the difficult tests in every area meant to prepare him for life and slept with every buxom beauty who attended the school. If he had not had such an interest in the deeper questions as to the nature of our very presence on the planet, he undoubtedly would have done just that. Instead he dropped out. A job was of little signifigance to him. He needed adventure. He needed time to connect to his inner voice and the truely expansive nature of his natural talents. He took the road less traveled. Overcoming his distaste for the horrors of the working class life, he found it in himself the ability to forgive his parents their lack of vision and accept their help with rent, paying for college and buying all his worldly possessions. I still thank god everyday that he graced their dog with his preta-super-natural canine whispering skills for only 10 dollars an hour. Where would that mutt have been without his affection? Probably on the street chasing cats. I once even had the pleasure of working on a creative project with Timmy, the making of a short film which he had written. I was given the easy tasks: finding all the actors, funding the movie, editing the screenplay, planning out the shooting schedule and directing the photography. It was a masterpiece which detailed the paths of the hearts Timmy had demolished. I feel blessed to have been given the opportunity to be a part of such high art. It is a memory I rely upon in my times of overwhelming self doubt. Even an inferior talent such as my own can play a part in the creation of greatness. Timmy was a hero to me and a true friend. The type of friend whom you are so glad you met. The type of friend who makes you wish you had a little sister who was hot enough to meet his standards so they could fall in love. The type friend who leaves you cursing god for failing to give you the genetics of a homosexual.

Created: Jul 18, 2012

Tags: writer friend school

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