By Wes J. Pimentel

For the most part, I have led a pretty blessed life. I think it all started the first time I watched “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”. That movie changed my life. It opened my eyes to the liberating mindset of what is clinically referred to as “Anti-Social Personality Disorder”. Basically, that means you do what you want and have a general sense of entitlement. After that switch went off in my head, I began doing what I wanted (for the most part), and trying to exude that relaxed confidence I had seen in the movie character. To my amazement, it worked!

I started waiting in lines less, I was generally treated well, and I couldn’t help but notice the effect on girls. It seemed that, for some strange reason, women were much more responsive to me when I just walked around doing whatever I wanted, to include hurting their feelings with abrasive comments.

So, that was the beginning; the seed, if you will. I had been an anxious child and in my early adolescence I had made the conscious decision to relax more. I began studying relaxation and even meditation. All this, coupled with the fact that I have always believed in God and have had unwavering faith that things turn out just right, made me one chilled-out mother-scratcher.

I pretty much coasted through high school and into college. My horrible grades in college are a clear testament to my “I-don’t-give-a-crap” mentality. Since my college career was going nowhere, and I was feeling quite unwelcome in my neighborhood, due to my rocky relationship with the local white-supremacists, I decided to run away to the Army.

The Army was wonderful, but I screwed it up by getting caught dealing drugs. I went to prison for almost two-and-a-half years. This might sound like a strange piece of information to add to an article about how blessed I feel, but the path my life has taken as a direct result of my incarceration has been showered with such amazingly undeserved providence; the likes of which dwarf the trivial pleasures I would otherwise have enjoyed.

I know deep down in my heart, that had it not been for the solitude and introspection afforded to me by my confinement, I would never have started writing seriously. My website would not exist and I never would have given myself the benefit of believing that I could churn out commercial-quality writing.

The other, and much more important thing I was shown throughout my sentence, was the undying and unequivocal love that Abbey, now my wife, has always had for me. To even attempt to describe the depths of this woman’s affections for me through words would be an insult.

At first I was blinded by lust, still in the depths of my sexual addiction, but that came to an end. After being confronted by my father, I had to admit that I was taking advantage of this girl. Up until that point, I had convinced myself that her love could not exist, due to my refusal to reciprocate it and the fact that logic dictated that love could not flourish in such inhospitable soil. When I heard my father matter-of-factly state that this girl was truly in love with me and that her love was true, I could no longer deny it. The door was now open to the obviously self-evident embrace of her core and I was terrified. Unable to believe that I could love back, I “broke up” with her. She continued to visit, albeit with a much diminished motivation. One can only withstand so much pain and I had repeatedly crushed her spirit.

Her responses to me, now free of that zombie-like devotion, annoyed me. My arrogant ego was no longer being satisfactorily stroked, so I cut ties with her. I vowed that I would not respond to any of her letters until she had written me three (weird, I know). Anyway, the first two came and went and afterwards months and months followed with nothing. I was fine for a time, but I eventually realized that I missed her; not her body, not her gorgeous face, but her. I missed her person. I knew I wanted her in my life one way or another. I broke my vow and wrote her a letter. She was in Iraq with the Army at the time. A few days later I received a letter from her. At first I thought it was a response to mine, but the math didn’t add up. It was impossible for her to have received and responded to mine in such short a time. We had written to each other at the same time. I saw this as an unmistakable sign that our connection was special.

I was now ready to invite her “self” into my frigid heart. I had bitten-off more than I could chew, though. Her love for me pierced the glacier in my chest and permeated every trace of my existence. I was taken up in this glorious embrace and I knew I was finally home.

I would not feel anything close, until the birth of my daughter, Fauna. Now I know what all those cheesy parenting clichés are all about. It’s easy to believe you have a purpose in this life until your first child is born. I have never experienced such an all-encompassing hijacking of my attention and focus. I live for my little girl. Twenty pounds of chubby little flesh now define my life, and I can’t wait for our second, Aleia.

Now that I look back, my stint in prison is completely eclipsed by the blessings that surround me. I would gladly have served an eternity in jail if I knew my present life would welcome me upon my release.

We live in Hawaii, on the island of Oahu. I drive a car that I fell in love with the first time I saw it, one of them new Mustangs. I recently quit my dead-end, moderately compensatory job to pursue a higher education in digital media at the behest of my ridiculously supportive wife. We live in a brand-new house. The list goes on.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this fantasy, but I’m holding on with both hands. Sometimes I feel gripped by the fear that I will lose it, or have to give-up something very dear to me to retain it. I make fun of my wife because she keeps a “gratitude journal”. I would never do anything so cheesy, but this piece will serve as mine. I was recently challenged to write something beautiful and the notion never left my mind. As you can see by reading this, I’m not that good when it comes to expressing beauty. This piece is neither critical, nor witty, nor humorous, nor sarcastic, and I can’t imagine anything more true to myself.