He's a thirty four year old child, or so his wife would scream at the top of her lungs, tears dripping from her eyes, black tears, filled with makeup and that stupid eyeliner, finally dribbling down to her pointy chin. Oops, scratch that, ex-wife now, isn't it, such a shame, they were always so good together, and it was such a confusing break up, too, very odd indeed. My, my, I almost forgot, that poor thing, the neighborhoods gossipers whisper, I heard that last fight was truly horrific; I heard this has been going on years and years , and that's so odd, the mister always seemed so nice and smiley.
He's a thirty four year old child, he knows so himself. He's too jumpy, smiles way too often, and still enjoys jumping on the master bed at hotel rooms with his shoes off, he really should quit all these bad habits, turn grey and old and bland, just like stale gum that had been chewed too much, he should fade away like dull wall paper, dissolving into the wall. He can't seem to do that, though. He laughs and jumps on beds anyways and is too jumpy for his own good. It's wrong, though, he should be a grown up, a thirty four year old adult, someone who wears a tie and drinks coffee even if it's disgusting instead of sticking to hot chocolate like he does, someone who owns a decent suit, earns a decent living, doesn't joke around with the kids next door.
He's a thirty four year old child, and it gave him nothing but trouble. Never growing up seems to do that to you. Even when he got divorced, even on that first night all alone, eating mac and cheese and doing his best not to give in to the silence, thinking, no, he'll never give up, life is just too interesting for that, I'll forever be a kid, always, and I won't regret it at all. And thinking he also wishes she was there, with her soft hands and that overdone perfume and the exaggerated make up she always had on because she never felt like her own face was good enough.
He's really scared of words, just like a thirty four year old child, scared so much that he can hardly breathe, and the thoughts that twirl around tighten the air inside his chest, making it impossible to live right, to be normal, and he's not normal, he's a child, even though he's thirty four, already a grown up, mature, a paying-the-bills-how-do-you-do-small-talk adult. The words that frighten him the most, jolt the living bejeezus out of him, are actually very simple, he'd heard them very often and very loud.
'Thirty four year old child' - it means that everyone will change, but him, everyone will fall in love the right way, keep their marriages intact, everyone won't make their wife scream at the top of her lungs, everyone but him, it means that people will gossip and think that he's so strange, what's with that smile, and he is, but it still doesn't feel good, and just like a child, he can't phrase the feelings into words, it just doesn't come out of his throat, and being a thirty four year old child means loneliness. Oh. Maybe that's the word he'd been looking for. It's so lonely to be alone, it's just too quiet way up inside his head.
He's a thirty four year old child, and he's trying to figure out this life.
Take pauses in between monologues. This whole thing was like one endless, ranty monologue. I liked the rantiness, due to your choice of topic, but it was like one enormous run-on.
