A little prose by me.
Our story starts out like most stories, a new life beginning sharing it's newfound oxygen with the others scattered around this small piece of rock called Earth. This is a new story to be told. Yet it is a story known to many and that must be told.
Our narrator starts his story at the ripe age of eighteen, looking forward to his future and his newfound freedom from juvenile incarceration from his parents. He is told to get an education in order to get a job in order to retire and be able to provide the necessary funds for his offspring to repeat the process. This process does not have an end. And to be as truthful as possible, it has no end goal. What is the goal? Happiness? Money? Prestige? Security? While most in our species will believe through the 24-hour media and religious institutions that this process will magically give them success, this industrial process does not ensure these petty things. It only ensures keeping the status quo and makes us more animalistic and barbaric than our idea of a sophisticated and polymath man.
Humans always praise themselves for being highly evolved and intelligent, better than any other species to grace the Earth. We've created buildings that go up to the heavens, tunnels under our rivers and oceans, satellites out in the final frontier that allow us to communicate with each other no matter where we are. The world has become smaller but at a great cost. Our human aspect has been corrupted. We see ourselves as individuals yet thirst for collective solidarity amongst our fellow man. An education, job, and family mean nothing to one except having this feeling of being part of something big. And with this thought, we experience our narrator trying to understand his place in this world.
Our narrator has just graduated secondary school in the year of our Lord two thousand and seven and is contemplating the high cost of an education that will apparently get him an ideal job. This job will apparently allow him to buy useless gadgets that will not truly create happiness for our narrator but give an illusion of happiness. He feels alone, thinking no one will understand him. Surely his parents won't.
The parents of our narrator were the two ideal "American" adults that would make even McCarthy oh so happy. But to you the reader should and shall remember throughout this story, nothing is what it seems to be. His father was a good ole G.I. Joe going to fight in Desert Storm 17 years earlier fighting for justice in a country in a barren desert. The father saw destruction around Iraq, which would later cause suffering to his wife and children with his terrible dreams and horrendous temper. While the narrator's father had his own demons, the mother was a polar opposite. You could say that she was a sweet middle-aged woman. Naive to the world, believing anything told to her by a dominant figure. If CNN told her that vegetables could cause cancer, she would instantly stop eating vegetables because of her trust in people she would never know personally but felt she knew like the back of her hand. She trusted people oh so easily and often overlooked her husband's downfalls. She only wanted the perfect things in life, which is admirable but not healthy. The two met in college becoming inseparable before the father joined the Army in order to fight for country and provide for his new family. While serving for the apparent greater good, this couple had two children, a daughter and our narrator.
The daughter and our narrator's sister was sold into the idea of doing good in school to get into the best university in the country to get a job title that has no meaning and is utter bullshit. Our narrator did not care for his sister, but he was happy for her, if happy is the right word to use, but he felt she was a zombie fixated on the idea of making more money and prestige in order for people to love her and accept her. Nonetheless, her beautiful looks had helped her get to this point; she was blonde, skinny as a twig, and with a perfect smile that could make any man (even the biggest playboy) melt. Our narrator's parents were so proud of her; they felt that even though they might have been dysfunctional, they had done something right in raising their daughter. She was the great experiment; the probability of success for the daughter was closer to zero than one. Yet the cards were dealt perfectly for the daughter and according to societal norms she was living a life that everyone wished they had.
So now that you the reader have a small understanding of our narrator's family, it would only be fair to give a glimpse of our narrator's life outside his home. The old saying, "It takes a village to raise a child" rings true here, since our narrator would not be the person he is if it weren't for the metropolis he lived in for the past 15 years.
 Specifically the narrator's father saw the Highway Of Death as part of the 1st Brigade, 24th Infantry Division, in which U.S. aircraft bombarded Iraqi civilians and military personal.
 One could say it this could be diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but because of the inefficiency of the Veterans Affairs Administration to give adequate health care to its veterans; the father was not properly diagnosed.
 The sister went to Princeton, an Ivy institution that screams elitism and white privilege. She majored in History with a GPA of 3.1, yet interned at the U.S. Capitol where she became a little too close to a Senator which would propel her career. Yet her parent's did not know the extent of the relationship their daughter had with the Senator.