I’m over here now!

http://faarondouglas.com/

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20. The Sloppy Good-bye.

It’s a strange moment when you look back on a failed relationship with a tinge of happiness.  The bitter sweet moment when you see your ex with another.  And she sees you.  On one hand you feel the low grade burn of slight jealousy because you’re a controlling bastard with superficial needs.  “Hey!  That was my girl!  Just because I don’t want her anymore doesn’t mean she is free for you to slobber on!  I expect her to die in a closet while her eighteen cats slowly devour her and her self knitted poncho!”  Pathetic.

But on the other hand you realize you are happy she will leave you alone.  I’m not going to say some fondue dipped, “I just want happiness for her.”  Because I don’t really care.  I’m glad I can turn my back now and not have to worry about her finding me in a bar with four fingers in some old ladies mouth.  That’s the beauty of indifference.  And the beauty of mouths.  Four fingers is perfect because you need your thumb to really grab that jaw.

Anyway, we slap Roundoms on the ass and point to the door.  We will keep the pictures to insure she doesn’t say anything slanderous about us.  Remember the donkey and the beer enema?  That’s right.  I have it stored in my cloud along with all the other photos your grandma took.  So take it easy.  I will now go partake in the joy of chunky peanut butter and a small dog.  For optimal pleasure, you must first remove the teeth.  That’s right, little fluffy!  It’s gummy time!

For the travel log of Los Angeles’ fruits and failures, visit faarondouglas.com.

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19. Woop-De-F******-Do

19  Well, well, well.  Fancy seeing you here.  You sure have a load of balls showing your face around these parts after what you did to my dog.  Peanut butter?  Really!?!  If I would have known what you were up to, I would have brought the fuckin’ Smuckers!  What was that?  Yeah, I know I look like shit.  I bought some stock in Jack Daniels and I’m just making sure my investment is not going tits up.  Soooo, what do you want?  You want to… Really.  Well shit, let’s go have a seat and pretend this is going to be fun.  So, who starts this again?  Right.  Well, OK.  Start Up The Fuckin’ Generator!

One Breaking.

What is that supposed to mean?  Is that really how you are going to start?  Fine.  Let me explain something.  Sometimes you decide that there are places and people and things, nouns really, that you don’t want to deal with.  There are good nouns and there are vicious, angry, bleeding out of your ass crap nouns.  Well, what I’m trying to say is, um, you can’t live without nouns.  But sometimes certain nouns make me want to shove a snickers up my ass in hopes of reverse fermentation because my mouth will not open to utter the syllables.  Why are you laughing?!?!  I can stop talking whenever I want to!  Fine!  My mouth is the glory whole, bitch.  I can spin a tale like worms spin silk.  AND, I didnt’ break up with you, I just didn’t want to look at your needy face anymore.  This is a two-way street, darling.  Two breaking!  Two breaking!!

Suspect Least.

Are you saying I’m not trying?  I haven’t seen you in over a month.  AND, you’re wrong.  I was trying desperately not to see you.  I was trying extremely hard.  How did you even know I was at this bar?!?  You heard me from outside.  Funny.

Equation Tell.

I dunno.  What do you want.  Exactly… What are you.. the sum of our parts?  Are you fuckin’ kidding me?  The only sum I’m interested in is the ounces of whiskey on my tongue…  Yeah, I know I’m a smart ass…  Wait a minute.  Are you trying to get back together with me?  Really.  I’m not sure.  I definitely can’t do two a week anymore, if that’s your idea.  I have other interests now.  For one, I’m writing a couple of things a week for a different blog.  Yes!  No!  That’s not true!  Whatever.  Take it or leave it.  One a week.  And no podcast.  I can’t believe how narcissistic I became with that fucking thing.  Embarrassing.  “Let me let you in to my insanity!?”  What a fuckin’ douche bag.

Get Behind.

OK.  I guess.  With those previously mentioned stipulations, I can do it.  Sure…  Damn.  Just when you think you’re done, they pull you back in.  It’s like a false turd.  At one moment it feels like you’re crowning, and the next moment you discover it’s just a big pain in your ass.  Kind of like you.

Leach Jest.

Hey, hey, wait a minute.  Let’s not go too fast.  “Leach Jest?”  I’m like a beached whale over here.  My mind isn’t up for much more than peeing on myself and rubbing my back fat with more back fat.  Can we please take it slow?  Are you slobbering?  Wow.  OK.  Well, that’s enough for now.  Put your penis back in your pants, Padre.  We can do the full Roundoms next time.  Yes, OK.  A proper one.  A thousand words.  I promise.  I’ll even give you a reach around.  Sure.  Yesssss.  I promise to spit on my hand next time.  One dry rub and suddenly you’re Hitler.  OK.  I gotta go.  Are you happy now?

Dragging Grand.

Yep.  Woop-de-do.

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18. The Jerry Sandusky Spa And Inn

Whew!  Just finished polishing my beaver and, oh, is she shiny!  There is nothing I am more proud to show off than my mounted beaver!  That’s the first thing you see when I open up my giant doorway to the ever-expanding hallway that leads to my “Carrie” themed room where we prance around as a bloody prom queen in our custom-made Jovani in front of the fireplace where my hairless beaver is mounted!  Sometimes I take down my beaver and dance the room with it clenched to my dirty pillows.  “There called breasts, mama!  Every woman has them.”

  OK.  So I’m juvenile and sick.  I knew that already.  Though, it seems as if you like staring at me as I insert my vintage Nintendo joystick into my rectum.  You keep shaking your head no, put the bulge in your Calvin Klein’s says “yes!”  Which is confusing because I thought you were a girl.  A girl with the loveliest adams apple.  Cute.

To get back into the flow of these Roundoms, the generator will fire out a handful of them as I swat them down one by one like I was Godzilla.  Or, as the Japanese say, Gahdzirrahh!

  Soooo, I guess that’s all there is to say except for, start up the generator!

Revenge Courtesy.

Yep.  Sometimes it is only right to extend the courtesy of revenge.  Some little pansy somewhere said, “An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind.”  But that’s total crap.  Serving up revenge has got to be one of those moments where we feel most alive.  The rush of blood. The sweat running down your neck. The clarity of focus on a single target with only one goal in mind like a hungry lion eyeing up the prize of a small Ethiopian.  Are there lions in Ethiopia?  Probably over caffeinated ones.  That’s why Ethiopians are so skinny.  There is only coffee and cigarettes there.  “Sorry, Nagasi, but you can’t live on coffee beans alone!  Though they will make you fast as lightning!  So put some of these coffee beans between your check and gums and fill out this marathon application!  You have been running for your life all this time, Nagasi!  Now you can run for gold!  No, you can’t eat that, will you please take that out of your mouth.  Oh.  A lip ring, you say?  Sure.  Why not.  Please don’t lick it.  OK.  Fine.  Whatever makes you happy.

  ANYWAY, as I see it, there are crimes that society will want you to pay for.  Cold blooded murder is revenged, in some states, for cold-blooded murder.  A calculated killing of a human being in reply of a calculated killing.  It seems  fair to me.  I’d actually like to see this done for more crimes against society.  If we arrested a pedophile in the act of his sick acts, we should be able to dress him up in a catholic school uniform and allow a seven-foot, three hundred and thirty pound man with a giant meat hammer for a penis drag that fucker into his van and drive him away for a weeks stay at The Jerry Sandusky Inn and Spa.  “We will wash away your sins one load at a time!”  Isn’t that a courtesy we owe to society?  Yep.  Your welcome, society.  Now let’s talk about you fucking all my friends.  Isn’t that your mother over there?  She sure looks lovely today.  I’m going to go over there and teach her “The Angry Dragon.”

Criticized Collecting.

Collecting items that are valuable to you doesn’t mean anything anymore, does it.  We no longer have impressive libraries to peruse because everything we read is now on our Kindles.  We no longer have the Jose Canseco rookie baseball card because the card isn’t in High Def.  We no longer have milk crates filled with records because Pandora and Spotify are essentially free and my iPod can fit in my pocket.  Eventually we will have a chip in our brain and that chip will clothe us in an ever-changing wardrobe applicable to the person we are standing next to.  You could appear in a suit and tie to your mother while you simultaneously appear to be wearing a gimp mask and a g-string to your gay lover.  All the while the soundtrack to Grease plays in your skull thanks to some satellite that hovers miles over your head.  Before you know it, we will own nothing but information.  But that will probably be free as well.

I just had an epiphany!  This is probably the catalyst for our overwhelming social narcissistic behavior!  There was once a time when you could have a visitor over to your pad and your personality would be represented by all of your collectibles.  What kind of music you liked would be on display on the corner shelf.  The books you read and the movies you watch and the art work you prefer and your style of design all the way down to the type of candles you might like to burn.  All you said was “Come on in” while a room full of your things would convey a certain something about your personality.  We don’t have that anymore, so now we try to convey the same shit by posting it somewhere on the web.  And now we stare at our various Tumblr and Facebook accounts to see who is looking back.  Our cool living rooms replaced by our sad laptops.  All of us sitting in giant rows of tiny rooms with small screens that softly illuminate our needy faces.  “Here is a picture of me playing with little Frumpy.  I rescued him last week.”  Then we quantify our self-worth based on “thumbs up” or insignificant comments.  “AWWWW.  So cute.”  No wonder we fucking suck.

  I had a small conversation with this nice enough guy the other day where he described his lifestyle as “analog.”  His point went something like this:  “I try really hard to read actual books that have paper pages and place actual vinyl albums on actual turntables and, though I realize I couldn’t survive entirely without a cell phone or my laptop, I live a life that isn’t dictated by my Facebook posts or trending tweets or viral YouTube videos.  Those are all cool, but I see them as mere tools to a more tactile life.”  Which I find to be an excellent practice.  Now I will go check on my blog numbers and upload my podcast and, undoubtably, stare at this computer screen to see if anyone noticed.

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17. Lighting A Bag Of Dogshit On Fire

Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you feel like a meth induced lunatic.  I don’t know what exactly happened in the last eight days, but it happened.  Let’s see.  Maybe I can Nancy Drew this shit for you.  Firstly I have a roommate.  She is a good roommate who doesn’t judge any aspect of my lifestyle.  Regardless if I am raping my guitar with the ghost of Darby Crash or spewing the answers to life out loud like some cranked out, not as funny, George Carlin.  Which I like.  But she decided she was going to visit her mom for a week in Hawaii.  Cool.  I have a free week to write and walk around the apartment free-balling my way to success.  I’ll do the dishes when I fucking want to and blast the new Bloc Party until my anus bleeds.  All good.  What i didn’t count on was the lack of supervision.  Or, at least, a lifeline.

  I dissed my Roundoms and she was not keen to hang out.  Which was fine with me.  I couldn’t imagine rubbing on her noun like nipples at all.  Bleck!  Fuck her!  Fuck that!  I’m not going down that road right now.  I thought about writing everyday, but dismissed it immediately for long sessions of Fifa 13 and giant bottles of Gentleman Jack.  I watched a load of movies like some neanderthal.  I inhaled a small bag of pita bread and an entire container of roasted garlic humus to the warm flickers of “I Love You, Man.”  I slurped up an entire pan of pasta Primavera with pesto and crushed red peppers over the three hours of “The Green Mile.”  I pounded a six-pack of Fat Tire to Ice T‘s hip hop documentary.  And all the while I slowly turned into a mix of Gollum and The Uni-Bomber covered in speckles of random food items and my own drool.  I occasionally took a peep outside, but it just depressed me more as I decided this place was a fine place to curl up to no one and hang out with myself.  Which, I now understand, is fucking difficult.  I just kept drinking more whiskey and ignored anything that was calling my name.  I was sinking pretty deep.

  The interesting thing you notice when you are drowning in the deep end of life’s pool is how serene it becomes.  You are well aware that you are heading south underneath the surface of reality, but you don’t flap your arms or kick your feet.  You look around at the diminishing light trying to break through the surface as you sink like there are huge boulders of regret tied to each ankle.  And all you do is watch it happen.  It’s almost like you are enjoying it.

  “You should try to swim to the surface, you know.”  “Yeah.  I know.  But the water is perfectly warm and there is no one around at the surface.  Who will see me break free?”  “You will see.  Isn’t that the important part?  Do you not want to swim to the surface?”  “I dunno.  I just kinda want to pee right now.  Ahhhhhh.  I’m peeing.  I don’t know why peeing in a body of water is so fantastic.  But I find great pleasure in it.”  “But, you realize, this is all a metaphor.  This isn’t actually a body of water at all.  You have passed out on the floor of your apartment and you are pissing your pants.”  “No I’m not! Am I?  Fuck!  God damn it!  Fuckin’ asshole!  Get up. Dickhead.  I’m glad we have wood floors.”

  I should probably apologize to my Roundoms.  I created her and then hurt her pretty much immediately.  Which sounds pretty familiar to me.  I’m sorry, ladies of the past.  I’m sorry I didn’t fuck you over sooner!  Hahahahahaha!  Sike!  You got what you deserved!  Hahahahaha.  Oh my god!  I’m sorry.  Just playing and shit.  Don’t cry.  You knew I was an asshole.  Didn’t you? Oh.  I guess you didn’t.  Well then what am I, some fucking old shack?!  You thought you could put in new floors and a gazebo in the backyard?!  Well fuck that!  That yard is reserved for all the dead hookers that came before you!  You better run, Sugar Tits, because I have the perfect plot for you!  Right next to dear old Aunt Olivia!  Hi, Olivia!  Remember when I looked up your skirt?  You should have kicked me right away instead of squatting down for a tinkle!  I might have enjoyed it if you hadn’t eaten so much fuckin’ asparagus!  That was disgusting!  Your dietary selections are very important if you want to play the water works game…  Uhhh.  Hmm.  I’m sorry.  Wasn’t I going to apologize to someone?

  Right.  Let’s go over and knock on her door.  “Hello?  Are you in there?  I haven’t seen you come out of your room for over a week.  Are you OK?”

Permitting Think.

Yeah, me too.  Listen, Roundoms, I’m sorry I publicly humiliated you last week.  You challenge me like no other and, on occasion, I’m not up to that challenge.  I’m sorry.  Can we try this again?  No promises.  Let’s just try to work on our relationship one Roundom at a time.  Is that something we can do?

Estimate Treat.

Well, whatever you want.  Anything your heart desires.

Preverified Necessitude.

Well, I can’t assure you of anything I will say at any given time.  This is still a wild endeavor that I don’t know we will survive.  Listen, I created you but I wont debate with you on any of my opinions.  You still have only one roll in this and that is serving up the words as I tear them down with my slanted and enchanted intellect.  You choose the vehicle, and I choose where we go.  That’s it.  Take it or leave it.

Set Magnitude.

I say we set the controls to stun!  Just you and me, babe!  We have a load of work to do.  Let’s light this bag of dog shit on fire and watch their nostril hairs burn down to the flesh!  Fuck ’em all!  Dead by dawn!  Get off my back, dad!  You are crushing my smokes!

Mastermind Duke.

Roundoms.  You’re just so fuckin’ cute.

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16. Unroundoms 1 (Rape The Rapist)

When my alarm goes off early in the morning, my first thought is, “I’m dying!”  There is this strange rigor mortis that sets in when I’m deep asleep as if my body has caught up with my emotional state.  I rise out of bed like a sorority girl from her rape table and try to ignore the pain that has locked up my muscles like an uneducated black man.  Hah!  Two similes in one sentence!  I’d pat myself on the back if I could only reach it.

  The last, say, ten days, this Roundoms concept has been weighing heavy on my shoulders.  I like the project, but it feels like my mind is caught in some vortex of transitive verbs and uncommon nouns.  I keep generating words, but all of them come with a snide grin and a bully’s demeanor.  I even flipped the audio version to start with The Roundom with me taking on the role of some custodian after a poo punching party.  How did I allow this to happen?  This battle hasn’t reached the second quarter and I’m already acting like Roberto Duran.  “No mas.  No mas.”

  A wonderful thing about depression is it will completely lift if the right thought goes through your head.  I’m one of the lucky ones because I have a new thought every nano second.  They overlap one another, but if I pay close attention I can comprehend a thought or two.  So, yesterday as I had my lips around my early generation Glock 19, I had this epiphany:  “Why does Heineken smell like pee but taste like sweet honey?”  No, not that one.  This one:  “I don’t always have to cave to the generator’s words!  Sometimes I could just write about whatever crosses my demented mind!  If I wanted to write about head butting a twelve year old girl while I fingered a shitzu’s ass while it was being held by the approving smile of Ru Paul’s vagina, then I could take my fingers out of little fluffy and write it in blood on a Subway napkin. I don’t always have to cater you, Roundoms!  I have free will to do what I want!  Go ahead! Talk some shit, punk!

Stun Management.

I see!  You should be stunned! I’m in charge around here, you fucking manipulative bitch!  Watch how I stuff this square peg into my round butthole.  “Ouch.”  You see?  This act is a metaphor for our relationship.  I do what I want from now on.  Damn, that’s uncomfortable.  But I’m going to leave it in for the duration of this essay.  Just to prove a point.  So what do you have to say now?!

Skipping Trouser.

I knew it!  You just shit yourself!  Each corn kernel skipping right down your leg!  “When the cops are on your trail and you have a monkey trail.  Diarrhea, bum bum!  Diarrhea!”  You look pathetic, Roundom.  Am I being to harsh?  Are you gonna cwy now like a witlle baby?  What was that?

Small Brush.

I know.  I know.  You’re more sensitive than a little orphan girl.  Jesus.  OK.  Come over here and sit down between my legs and I’ll brush your hair.  This blood has completely tangled everything.  Hold still, this is going to hurt a little.  Stop crying, or I’ll feed you to the Nigga in the alley.  He’ll eat anything.

  We should take a moment to bring you a word from our sponsor.  “Have you ever turned on the kitchen light and… Uh Oh!  Yuck!  There they go scampering under the sink, refrigerators and any nook and cranny that is available.  MEXICANS!  Don’t leave that tortilla chip on the floor, little Peggy.  Those Mexicans travel in packs!  If you attract one, you will attract the whole barrio!  But now you can stop them with, Cholaway!  Cholaway deters unwanted mexicans by distributing education capsules all over the room.  Once a Mexican sees all of that education, they scamper away as fast as they can to their dish washing and nanny jobs!  Mexicans hate education, and you hate Mexicans.  Get rid of them with, Cholaway!”

  Good.  No, better than good!  It’s wicked gnarly, kid!  I feel like I’m driving the short bus to see a matinée of Grown Ups part 2.  Because that movie is bound to be retarded.  I’m sorry.  Excuse me for a moment.  Hey, billy, stop eating that chocolate!  Where did you get that?  “A doggie dropped it.”  Gross!  Why would you eat some shit that a dog unloaded onto the grass?  Oh wait.  It’s because you’re retarded!  You will never know love, Little Billy.  Never know what a hard nipple on an excitable woman feels like.  You will never know the well oiled, worn in catcher’s mitt that is a woman’s floppy ass vagina.  You won’t even know what vagina means.  You are doomed to a life of unending celibacy!  You want to know why, Little Billy?  It’s because you are retarded!  Now go sit the fuck down with all the other fuckin’ retards!  Jesus, you’re stupid.  OK.  Where was I?

  Right!  I feel like an Asian girl on her first white guy date.  “Oohhh.  I’m gonna get it leal good.”  I feel like a bunch of cock suckers on a cock ranch.  “There’s too many feathers!”  I feel like an alcoholic that has just woke up behind a dumpster having found out he pissed himself.  “Yeahhh!  No shit this time!”  I feel like a man who has just shared a flirtatious moment with an interesting woman that ended with a soft giggle, a slight touch on the arm, an intoxicating smile and exiting comment like,  “See you around, smart guy.”

  So, I guess this is acceptable.  I feel good about it.  The essays will continue, but they don’t always have to include you, Generator.  Tomorrow is a new day and I don’t necessarily want you around all the time.  On occasion, I might want to be alone with my cold Glock and a sweating temple.  On other occasions, I might try to fit entire sentences into my rectum, regardless of their shape.  The point is you don’t own me anymore, Roundoms.  I will always cherish the moments we have had in the past and the ones we will definitely share in the future.  With that being said, I must also add, all of this feels good again.

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15. Wait. Why Do I Give A F***?

Have you ever felt crazy?  Not the crazy where you are trying to stuff a 14 inch pizza in your ass one slice at a time, but the clear crazy.  The lucid crazy.  The outer body experience crazy.  “What the fuck am I supposed to be doing right now?  Should I reply to that Facebook message I need to go to the printer yes a nap sounds nice I need to call my brother should I tweet some more I should probably eat you need to write you need to write you need to write you need to write.  Right.”  I have tied my ankles to the table legs with wire.  I’m ready, you bastard!

Start Up The Generator!!!

Answer Editor.

“Hello, everyone.  I’m Bubba McBubba.  Is your relationship going down the shitter because you have forgotten how to respond to your better half?  Does it feel like you are being questioned by a mercenary?  Is your body one big red button that your spouse is constantly driving their bony fingers into?  I’m hear to help.  I’m your “Answer Editor!”  Let’s give a demonstration, shall we?  This is John and Mary.  They have been married for twenty five years of sheer torment.  Until they hired me!  “Do you always have to eat with your fucking mouth open like that?! It’s disgusting, John.”  (John leans over and whispers his answer into the Answer Editors ear.)  “It’s because your food is so repugnant, I have to breath through my mouth to keep from smelling this god damn abortion of a meal!”  I’m sorry, dear.  I didn’t realize I was doing that.  I’ll refrain at once.  “Do you always have to wear those god damn pearls on a daily basis?  You look like a stuck up bitch!”  (Mary leans over to whisper.)  It’s what I get for marrying an alcoholic loser like you.  I don’t have anything else to wear because you can’t afford it!”  But they are my all time favorite gift, dear.  It reminds me of the love we share.  See?!  They are living in perfect harmony!  If you need a little help, call me!  Bubba McBubba!  I’m your answer editor!

  To edit your answers, one must know the questions.  Everything we do is based off a series of questions.  Some are big questions and some are small.  But it’s all we do all day long, every day of our life.  For instance: “Do I wan’t to get up right now?  Do I wan’t to hit the snooze button?  Should I make coffee before I take a dump?  Do I have time to masturbate?  Should I bring out the candles and sandpaper?”  And then we react with an answer.  “Fuck no, I don’t want to get up.  Hell yes I’m hitting snooze.  Coffee will help loosen up that extra pound of rump roast I ate last night.  I have plenty of time to rub one out.  No candles, but I will partake in a good bloody stump.  Maybe I should use a cheese grater this time?”  

  Of course, Philosophers ponder bigger questions than masturbation.  The “Who am I” and “Is there a purpose to the universe” and “What is imagination?”  These questions don’t really have a clear cut answer.  That’s why  modern philosophers are still asking the same questions.  Which seems to be a huge waste of time.  How am I supposed to know who the fuck I am when I change on a daily basis.  On one day I love slutty girls and on another day I might wonder what it would be like to have a hard cock in my mouth.  Maybe the question should be, “Who am I today?”  “Today I will be a Jew hating black man with eight kids by nine women.  Two of them couldn’t afford a full pregnancy so they had to split it.  I will be jaded in isolation and I will beat thirty percent of my ex-wives.  And then I will convert to being muslim.  Hey, Chris Brown!  It’s legal in the middle east.”

  Sometimes people have answers they want to hear from your mouth.  This is where it gets tricky.  Someone, say a date, want’s to get to know you.  AND, say she is pushing forty and she still doesn’t have kids.  AND, she wants some fuckin’ kids yesterday already.  So, how will her desperate questions influence how you will edit your answers?  “Are you afraid of ghosts?”  “Um, I don’t really believe in ghosts.”  “Are you afraid of heights?”  “Why, is this date going to make me want to jump from a bridge?”  “Are you afraid of commitment?”  “Are you serious?  Isn’t it a little early to ask that question?  “Do you love children?”  “Not your children, if that’s what your asking.”  “Do you see your father as the head of your family.”  “My father? No.  Why? Do you know where he is?”  “Have you ever gone to therapy?”  “As soon as this dates over?  “How many lovers have you had?”  “Are we including your mom?”  “Do you like me?!”  “Yeah, sure. You’re ok I guess.”  “YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND NOW!”

  I once had a high school counselor say to me, “So, you think you have all the answers, huh?”  Which is a ridiculous concept because everyone has all the answers.  They are just not always the right answers. But deep thinking was not as important as rebellion back then, so I think my answer was, “No!  I don’t have all the answers.  I just don’t want to be like you. Is that so hard to understand?”  If I remember correctly, it was hard for him to understand because he knocked over his coffee in a huff to make it around his desk to grab me buy my Slayer t-shirt and pull me right up nose to nose.  It was a different time back then and this kinda stuff wasn’t as shocking as it is now.  I mean some of the institutions leaders had fucking ass paddles on display in their offices.  He continued, “Listen, asshole.  You are never going to be like me.  I’ve been guiding the youth of America for over twenty years now.  And you are just some burnout that will end up dead or in jail.  Now get out of my office because you make me sick.”  

  Why was I always making adults sick?  How come I never ended up in jail?  Was this “death” thing literal or emotional?  How many times have I had such great advice?  How many shots of whiskey does it take to get to the center of the whiskey pop?  Why do Nordic women sound retarded during sex?  Is ambition always this hard?   I might have to answer these tomorrow.  Because today’s question is, Why do I give a fuck?”

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