Jeff is three years old. He’s still new to the world and his eyes are full of wonder. He wants to soak up every bit of detail he can. Why is the sky blue? What is in a cake? How do eyes work? His parents thought it was cute and would always gladly answer his questions.
Jeff Winger is six years old. He doesn’t know why his questions don’t make his parents smile any more. Instead his dad just rolls his eyes and ignores him. His mom will answer, but is always mean and snippy with it.
Jeff Winger is nine years old. His mom didn’t pick him up from school so he walked home. When he got there her words were slurred and she was stumbling. Yelling something about how it was all his fault. A bottle crahsed somewhere behind him. He ran to his room, wondering where his dad was.
Jeff Winger is ten years old. It was late at night he sat balanced on the toliet. The cool metal shook against his skin. He pushed it in, red bood gushed out. Jeff wondered why the pain felt good. But he didnt have to, all he knew is he got a dozen get-well soon cards and people cared about him.
Jeff Winger is fourteen. He has long gone numb to the world. He's been floating though school, cheating his way though every test and quiz. He thinks back to that time he was ten balanced on the tolier and how the pain felt good. He dug out a dull knife and turned it over mutiple times in his hand. It wasn't his first, and it wouldn't be his last. But it once again it didn't matter, becuase he felt a little less numb now.
Jeff Winger is sixteen. He's eating in the library becuase he can't stand the way people look at him when he eats. How he chows down on food like a pig to feed his fast metablism. Or how the bullies come and find him to make sure he knows he's skinny and worthless. Two weeks later he see's an add on tv to get buff quick. His is the gym the next day for three hours until he passes out. It becomes a new daily tradition.
Jeff Winger is sixteen. He as at a high school party when he tastes alcohol for the first time. He loves the way it burns his throat. The next day he raids his mom’s liquor cabinet. His never felt so good.
Jeff Winger is eighteen. He sits in a pile of rejection letters. He decides right now trying to no longer worth it. He’ll have to fake his way though life.
Jeff Winger is twenty-two. He’s in some random back alley holding a fake bachelors degree. His name traced in cursive. The next day he goes to take the LSAT. He was gonna be rich.
Jeff Winger is twenty-nine. He is sitting in his condo alone. He has a half empty bottle of scotch in one hand with and a knife in the other. Six months later he forms a study group for a hookup. Little did he know these misfits would end up saving his life. It wasn’t much at the moment, but it was something
