The Burden of Being Sammy
(A Parenthetical Discussion of Self-Perception Versus Reality)
He’s kind of like the cute chick on The Munsters, only taller and with better hair. Or in Kripke world, he’s Luke Skywalker to Dean’s Han Solo in the far, far away of rural America as the two of them tool down Route 66 through infamous hives of scum and villainy in the coolest landspeeder ever.
He’s the Holy Grail, the vessel, the hero, the point. He’s clearly John’s favorite. He’s an emo bitch and a spoiled brat who throws selfish tantrums and stomps away in guy-like hissy fits. He’s the prodigal son, the rebel without a cause, the journey that matters, the poster child of him and all the children like him. He’s Captain Obvious and Geek Boy. He likes anemic pop crap and won’t shut his cake hole; he’s a pain-in-the-ass kid brother who’s too smart, always cautious, usually right, and still manages to need saving on a regular basis. He’s a pudgy twelve-year-old, the teen who left home in a stomp, the guy who fights with his dad because they’re too much alike to ever get along, and the man who grieves the murder of his lover by developing a bit of an unholy thirst for vengeance. He’s the one with plans, dreams, hopes for the future. He’s the one looking for love, willing to show love, striving to be normal, wanting to fit in, bonded to his family, but also independent of his family.
He is Sammy; and he is Us.
Oh come on. Admit it. …