Oh, sweet, sweet narcissism.
I was born in 1975 at a facility called (I swear) Antelope Hospital in Neligh, Neb. My father was a preacher in the Church of Christ, a small sect of Protestantism that believes heaven is going to be like a very long episode of Little House on the Prairie. We moved around quite a lot when I was young, living in such exotic locales as Casper, Wyo., McCook, Neb., and Brush, Colo., before we finally settled in Yuma, Colo. (population 2,000), where I spent my childhood. If you’re an avid pheasant hunter or enjoy taking black-and-white photographs of old men wearing denim overalls, you might have visited Yuma. There’s also a very nice 7-Eleven there.
I have an older brother, two younger sisters, and a well-intentioned mother who prays for my soul a lot and makes the best butterscotch-cream cheese brownies you’ve ever tasted. There are several stories posted on this website about my childhood if you would like to read more, but let’s just say it was a lot like the movie Footloose, except without all that annoying Kenny Loggins music.
I attended the University of Northern Colorado, where I majored in history with minors in English and special education. I considered Greeley, Colo. to be a huge metropolis because it contained both a Wal-Mart and a K-Mart. In college, I discovered it was not cool to be a Christian Republican, so I converted to a Buddhist Democrat. I accomplished this by shaving my head and watching the movie Seven Years in Tibet. Five years and fifty-thousand dollars later, UNC offered me a pretty piece of paper with my name on it. I accepted it and said thank you.
After college, I took a job at a corporate bookstore and spent my nights writing some of the worst stories ever created in the English language. I concluded that the problem was environmental. Therefore, in an effort to become truly cultured, I saved up some money and bummed around Europe for several months, where I learned how to eat French fries with mayonnaise and purchase drugs in seven languages.
When I returned home, my alma mater offered me the opportunity to learn more useless stuff, so I enrolled in graduate school and studied literary theory for a few years. When it was over, they offered me another pretty piece of paper with my name on it. Once again, I accepted it and said thank you.
I passed some time working at a private university in California and then I lived for ten months in Prague, where I drank a lot of beer and interviewed the local prostitutes. When I returned to America, I lied on my résumé in a desperate attempt to obtain a job in journalism. Much to my surprise, it worked. I spent three years as a journalist and editor at an alternative newspaper called Boulder Weekly, where I drove my supervisor crazy by writing strange articles about karaoke singers, homeless guys, Paris Hilton, Garth Brooks, SkyMall, and robots. I thoroughly enjoyed writing a weekly column called That’s Irrelevant, which was awarded first prize in the Personal Column category by the Society of Professional Journalists in 2008. I also received awards from SPJ for my feature writing, narrative nonfiction, and cultural criticism.
In 2009, I quit the job at Boulder Weekly in order to pursue a career in creative writing. I am about to finish a book of autobiographical essays, and when it is complete, I look forward to receiving rejection letters from some of the finest publishing houses in the country. Currently, I work three days a week at a local medical-marijuana dispensary called Medicine on The Hill and spend the rest of my time hesitantly poking at a keyboard.
In 2009, the editor of Monkey Puzzle Magazine nominated my short story, “Hills like Golden Arches,” for a Pushcart Prize. I am deeply grateful.
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All content copyright © 2010-2012 Dale Bridges
