Sweet revelations, bitter replies.

During my recent trip back to my hometown of San Diego, I attended my cousin's 18th birthday debut. At the party, which was a romantic event staged in a Spanish-style miniature villa in the Otay Lakes area of south San Diego, one of my aunts remarked that I looked like my uncle Jun. I've been growing out my hair to a lustrous style lately, thus the reference would be fitting considering this look is a slight homage to 80's glamor. However, after this compliment was paid, I quickly asked whether that description was a good thing or a bad thing. So maybe this estranged relative of mine once looked dashing in the 80's hey-day, but I could not help but immediately recall some negative image out of that statement. In my mom's side of the family, we have a highly diverse lineage, almost every family unit has followed the tracks to the American Dream except perhaps this uncle. On my dad's side, my surname lineage is squeeky clean, so I feel comfortable being the posterboy of black sheep badass for my Sacramento family. However, getting mentioned that way in conjunction with my other family left me with a stinging after-taste. That uncle, the last holder of my grandfather's name, has all but been disowned in some way by my own mom. In many ways, I am slightly on the same course, and that is a growing fear I can't live with. I am reckless and without a solid bearing that will dictate the next 20 years. These things I am very aware of, and I don't often care about the end results of my existence. I am just afraid that these nightmarish self-induced prophecies will come true just because I believe they will.