You’re probably familiar with the story about Icarus whose father Daedulus fashioned wings made from wood and wax so that they could escape from Crete after being exiled, right? Then Icarus flew too close to the sun which melted his wings. He dropped like a stone into the ocean and drowned.
Lately, with girls, I’ve been no stranger to falling great distances and the smell of singed feathers, but that’s probably my fault for throwin around the greek-myth metaphors. I should probably watch more television to re-up my pop culture quotient. So, who’s this Zooey Deschanel character everyone’s talking about? Is she in them new talkin’ pictures?
Shucks, I couldn’t make a Twilight joke right now to save my ass.
So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no SCIENTIST, but when it comes to the mysteries of the universe I tend to think it has more to do with gravity and atoms than Jesus or a giant turtle that carries the earth on its back, although that would be fuckin’ sweet. I get into arguments about the afterlife (nothing, dead in the ground) and in my opinion anyone who doesn’t believe in evolution has more in common with a monkey’s intelligence than any normal human.
I feel this way for two reasons. The first is simply because I enjoy being given a little evidence to back up theories and ideas that are thrown my way. The second is because I feel that through science the world and universe are revealed to be impossible and incredible, even more so given the boundaries of science i.e. gravity, entropy etc.
But lately? Man, lately I’ve been craving some real magic. Remember that Bigfoot hoax awhile back where those two hikers reported to have frozen the body of one and found three more living in a cave outside in Georgia? Dude, it was on CNN. I knew it had to be false, of course, but the hope and excitement burned in me like a child trying to stay up to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I, at that moment, wanted all the storybooks I read as a kid to be validated. If there are Bigfoot then there could be Nessie, giant eagles and chupacabras, right? I desperately wanted my world revealed to me to be exactly as fantastical and incredible as the kids I teach still think it is.
It was a hoax. I was left to content myself with the coelacanth. Shit.
I really love the analogy of something being so rare that to find or see it is like “spotting a unicorn” because it implies that unicorns exist. I also like it because I’m super childish.
Romanticism comes in many different forms.
Sure, you could lock eyes with her across a crowded ballroom and grow infatuated with the way she holds her glass and the delicate laugh that sighs from her lips as she makes idle discourse with foreign dignitaries.
But you could also get the same feeling from that conversation you had with her where you asked her how her experience in Paris was wherein she described having sex with this random guy on Jim Morrison’s gravestone, but the guy started to get burning hot and then he turned into a werewolf that chased her through the streets and you didn’t realize until she started singing that shitty song by Bush that that she literally just fed you the opening sequence of American Werewolf in Paris. Then, my friends, you are a smitten kitten.
Yeah, sometimes that “moonlight, June light and you” crap can take a long fuck off a short shit.
I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I right, guys? All right! Let’s go get beer! High-fives all around! Let’s go! Wait, I gotta grab my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys. All right! (another round of high-fives)
Okay, they’re gone.
So, sure. I cry when truly big shit happens like the death of loved ones, when Obama was elected, Wednesdays, etc. But there some very certain wuss circumstances in which I cry: Movies. Movies that necessitate that man-crying “woof” where we clear our throats and think about how awesome that time was when we were accidentally delivered two pizzas and only charged for one. You know. Gooood times.
But which movies? It’s probably pretty cliche, but Braveheart gets me every time. Maybe it’s a dude thing, but man. FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOM! No amount of anti-Semitic alcoholic Australian antics are gonna ruin that for me. No way. But that’s an easy one. That’s a gimme.
It’s no big deal to cry during ET. It’s a sad movie. It was built to fuck with your emotions. The difference is that it really gets me bad. Like those crying Twilight fans bad. Hell, one time I was out on a date with this girl- one of those dates where you sort of realize in the first few minutes that it isn’t gonna work and that you’re going to be forced to spend the next three mind numbing hours listening to them talk about their friends. Yeah. At any rate, I don’t even remember what movie we were going to, but ET was being re-released in theatres. As soon as that ET music started I realized that I might be about to openly weep during a PREVIEW. But I was keeping it cool. Angling my face away from the side where she was sitting and thinking about kites. Then, of course, right at the end of the preview ET points his finger at Elliot’s chest and says “RIIIIIIGHT HEEEEERE” and I make one of those intake-of-breath sounds like a truck just backed up over my nuts. I blubbered. So busted.
Then there’s that part of Robin Hood where the rooster sings Not In Nottingham. A friend of mine was watching this recently when I awoke hung-over and fragile after my birthday. I had to leave the room when the bunny gave that crumb to the mouse. Holy shit. I was not ready for that. Waterworks.
The last is TV commercials. I know I need a vacation when I get teared up during insurance ads and shit like this. But that’s probably Tom Waits’ fault.
My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul. In it, a woman in London calls pizza places for delivery in full knowledge that places in England don’t deliver. She does this to give herself an excuse to yell and rant and generally blow off steam. I do the same thing.
But see with me it’s my bank. Motherfuckin’ Bank of America. I hate BofA with every fiber of my being. For the times they placed a hold on my money for reasons they weren’t even able to describe to the many many overdraft fees I’ve incurred because of their slowness to post my checks. They’re dicks. Dicks, I say!
But what can you do? They’re too big. And they DO NOT give a shit about you, me or any person who still takes out money orders to pay the rent. You’ve got a better chance of Jake or Gary Busey biting off your pinky finger at some point in your lifetime than Bank of America conceding a fuckin’ dime even if was admittedly their fault your checking account now has a minus sign next to it. Weird example, but correct.
So, you know what I do? Every time I really want to rage about something I go into my local branch and scope out the personnel. I avoid the tellers, they’re just schlubs like me and don’t actually have any personal stake in their fucked-up company. I find a manager, preferably a disagreeable one and start discussing my personal finances. If the manager is nice then I don’t make a fuss. I don’t want to be mean. There’s no sense in ruining a persons day just for doing their job. But if they try and say that these inconsistencies in their systems are somehow my fault then it’s on. Oh, it’s fuckin’ on. If I play my cards right I can have both of us screaming obscenities at each other within ten minutes. I usually leave the branch yelling something like “You’re bloodsuckers! BLOODSUCKERS!”.
I come away from the situation feeling cleansed- miles high and completely Zen. I walk home with a smile on my face and a whole holy host of angels singing Cloud Nine by The Temptations. It’s my therapy. It’s my stress ball. It’s my heroin.
Does this make me a dick? Probably.
But FUCK Bank of America.
Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is someone missing a soul?
Sure, they can be annoying, loud and obnoxious. So can you, dude. We still call you to hang out, right?
Shit, man. Kids are the best. Our whole generation is so committed to our irony and sarcasm that it can be incredibly refreshing to hang out with someone who thinks sunshine is all it takes to have a good day. Y’know what? I DO want to play ninja turtles. And the fact that you want to be Raphael too just proves that you know what you’re talking about. We’re going to get along just fine.
Kids are intuitive, logical and sometimes wise completely unintentionally. The other day, I was taking care of Katie, who is a little strawberry haired goofball who looks like a mini-princess version of Prince Harry. She’s four and a half, but sweet on this kid she goes to kindergarten with. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. “Nope.” I said deciding it would be impossible to put “I recently had my heart broken and so I’m a little wary of girls and since from a biological standpoint being gay isn’t an option I’m gonna go ahead and be alone for awhile.” in terms she would understand. Later during our walk through Logan Square she said, “There will always be pretty girls who want to be with you.” Holy shit. Have you ever gotten a there-are-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea talk from a four and a half year old? It’s the only time I ever believed it.
And hey, it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but I can’t wait to have children. Boy or girl, I won’t care. Oh, you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t have what it takes to be a parent? I’m a preschool teacher and nanny, dude. I’ve got the paternal instinct on lock. I look totally adorable holding a baby and I can change a diaper in ten seconds. The poop doesn’t even bother me anymore. Shit.
I plan on teaching the little one to run up to people, ask them to bend down to their level and then whisper “Psychic powers.” in their ear before running away. How awesome will that be?
Plus, I’m totally looking forward to raising kids with you.
I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.
More and more, recently, I’ve been running into a specific type of person I call “new”. They come in all shapes and sizes, but more often than not it’s a specific type of flighty girl that seems to pop up more and more frequently around me as of late. You can usually tell them by their dress and complete obliviousness to everything that’s happened in the world as of one week ago. It’s as if they’ve just stepped off their spaceship moments prior to meeting you. Their presence would be stranger if it didn’t make life so goddamned interesting.
They step out of their apartments wearing rain galoshes, tutus and scarves- dressed like wizards trying to pass themselves off as muggles. They’re convinced that rain means heartbreak somewhere and have no concept of how weird a five second pause in the middle of a sentence seems to the rest of us. Sometimes I can swear I catch them looking at a faucet like it’s some sort of new invention. Not in the awed oh-my-god-what-is-that observation, but in the running-water-how-quaint-I-shall-make-a-note-of-this kind of way.
They have no cell phone. They don’t use the Internet. They have no TV. They have no interest in who Judd Apatow is and they talk to homeless men on the subway. They give their heart willingly. They’re convinced people are inherently good. They get taken advantage of often.
I have depressing thoughts of a sentient race of aliens who landed here and disguised themselves to look like us. While here, they are robbed, lied to and laughed at. Their hearts are broken and we reveal to them who we really are as a species. But they just stand there and stare at us with quiet observation and amazement, much in the same way we look at gorillas and marvel at “how much they are like us.”
I really fuckin’ hope this is all in my head.
A friend of mine recently made a joke about how an old boyfriend of hers really liked to lick her butt. This information, in turn, made another one of my friends almost throw up in the sink. I realized at that moment that, because of the internet, it takes some seriously depraved shit to disgust me. Tentacle stuff? Girls with cups? Horses? Run the list. I’ve seen it. The paltry day-to-day nasty stuff is just something I wrinkle my face at and say “Gross.” before finishing my sandwich.
I can’t imagine what could possibly make me puke at this point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s out there. I don’t go looking for this stuff, but it finds me. It’s your buddy going “Dude, check this out.” Followed by you saying “Holy shit, Mike! Why the fuck would you show me that?”
I remember a first date with a girl wherein my good friend and roommate, Ned, showed us that video of those Japanese girls eating baby eels out each other’s butts. I can’t remember why we stayed to watch or why he did it in the first place, but we ended up dating for over a year. The girl and I. Not Ned.
But I digress, the point is that I’m completely desensitized, German accents and shit are irrevocably linked in my mind and I would never lick a butthole.
Hell, you want to see some truly awful stuff? It’s called Two Girls- One Cab. In it, two girls shit all over a taxi and then eat the ENTIRE CAB. Including the steering wheel. Sick stuff.
I could never be your Gregory Peck, Cary Grant or Robert Mitchum, but I would shoot the the moon from the sky to be your Arthur Miller.
So, just let me become a better writer and steal a nuclear warhead and I’ll get back to you.
I will never ever move to the suburbs. I plan on having kids someday and there is no way I’d ever let my kids be brought up there. Some people say they’ve moved to the suburbs because it’s a better place to raise kids. Bullshit. I think parents move to the suburbs because it’s an EASIER place to raise kids. The schools are better and there’s less crime due to their gated-ness and remote location. I’d rather raise my kids around crackheads and speeding traffic than make them attend a school with a two-thousand strong student body. When you get a large enough group of suburban kids together it can turn into some Lord of the Flies shit real quick.
Why?
Boredom. These kids are fuckin’ bored. The craziest dudes I knew who did the most insane amounts of whatever they could get their hands on and had the most depraved sex at the youngest age were always from the suburbs because their entire growing-up period was some weird larval stage in which their world was some culturally unstimulating morass of a city constructed to be idyllic (gasping for breath). Like some Pleasantville type shit.
Parents might get nostalgic about the times when the only place for them to hang out in their town was the local burger joint, but it’s a different time now and kids have an alternative to being bored without having to drive three counties over to where someone discovered a rock outcropping that looked like a pair of breasts.
And then there’s the cruelty. Sure, kids are cruel no matter where you go, but when your school is your entire world with no actual big-city-real-life situations around you, I think it can make you myopic to point that you actually believe school is all there is. Like it will go on forever. I think that’s why kids sometimes think they need that “dominant male monkey motherfucker” attitude to survive what doesn’t even amount to five years of their lives. There should be signs posted everywhere reminding people that nobodys social standing will carry over into college although everyone will be getting laid there. I think that would do some good.
I could raise my kids in the city, country or any country around the world, but I feel that they’d get a better understanding of the real world going to school on the fuckin’ moon than in the suburbs.
I’m not saying if you were raised in a suburb that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict who hates on kids weaker than you. I’m just saying I wouldn’t raise my kids there. And that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict. No, seriously, I’m sure you’re very cool.
You’re probably familiar with the story about Icarus whose father Daedulus fashioned wings made from wood and wax so that they could escape from Crete after being exiled, right? Then Icarus flew too close to the sun which melted his wings. He dropped like a stone into the ocean and drowned.
Lately, with girls, I’ve been no stranger to falling great distances and the smell of singed feathers, but that’s probably my fault for throwin around the greek-myth metaphors. I should probably watch more television to re-up my pop culture quotient. So, who’s this Zooey Deschanel character everyone’s talking about? Is she in them new talkin’ pictures?
Shucks, I couldn’t make a Twilight joke right now to save my ass.
So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no SCIENTIST, but when it comes to the mysteries of the universe I tend to think it has more to do with gravity and atoms than Jesus or a giant turtle that carries the earth on its back, although that would be fuckin’ sweet. I get into arguments about the afterlife (nothing, dead in the ground) and in my opinion anyone who doesn’t believe in evolution has more in common with a monkey’s intelligence than any normal human.
I feel this way for two reasons. The first is simply because I enjoy being given a little evidence to back up theories and ideas that are thrown my way. The second is because I feel that through science the world and universe are revealed to be impossible and incredible, even more so given the boundaries of science i.e. gravity, entropy etc.
But lately? Man, lately I’ve been craving some real magic. Remember that Bigfoot hoax awhile back where those two hikers reported to have frozen the body of one and found three more living in a cave outside in Georgia? Dude, it was on CNN. I knew it had to be false, of course, but the hope and excitement burned in me like a child trying to stay up to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I, at that moment, wanted all the storybooks I read as a kid to be validated. If there are Bigfoot then there could be Nessie, giant eagles and chupacabras, right? I desperately wanted my world revealed to me to be exactly as fantastical and incredible as the kids I teach still think it is.
It was a hoax. I was left to content myself with the coelacanth. Shit.
I really love the analogy of something being so rare that to find or see it is like “spotting a unicorn” because it implies that unicorns exist. I also like it because I’m super childish.
Romanticism comes in many different forms.
Sure, you could lock eyes with her across a crowded ballroom and grow infatuated with the way she holds her glass and the delicate laugh that sighs from her lips as she makes idle discourse with foreign dignitaries.
But you could also get the same feeling from that conversation you had with her where you asked her how her experience in Paris was wherein she described having sex with this random guy on Jim Morrison’s gravestone, but the guy started to get burning hot and then he turned into a werewolf that chased her through the streets and you didn’t realize until she started singing that shitty song by Bush that that she literally just fed you the opening sequence of American Werewolf in Paris. Then, my friends, you are a smitten kitten.
Yeah, sometimes that “moonlight, June light and you” crap can take a long fuck off a short shit.
I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I right, guys? All right! Let’s go get beer! High-fives all around! Let’s go! Wait, I gotta grab my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys. All right! (another round of high-fives)
Okay, they’re gone.
So, sure. I cry when truly big shit happens like the death of loved ones, when Obama was elected, Wednesdays, etc. But there some very certain wuss circumstances in which I cry: Movies. Movies that necessitate that man-crying “woof” where we clear our throats and think about how awesome that time was when we were accidentally delivered two pizzas and only charged for one. You know. Gooood times.
But which movies? It’s probably pretty cliche, but Braveheart gets me every time. Maybe it’s a dude thing, but man. FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOM! No amount of anti-Semitic alcoholic Australian antics are gonna ruin that for me. No way. But that’s an easy one. That’s a gimme.
It’s no big deal to cry during ET. It’s a sad movie. It was built to fuck with your emotions. The difference is that it really gets me bad. Like those crying Twilight fans bad. Hell, one time I was out on a date with this girl- one of those dates where you sort of realize in the first few minutes that it isn’t gonna work and that you’re going to be forced to spend the next three mind numbing hours listening to them talk about their friends. Yeah. At any rate, I don’t even remember what movie we were going to, but ET was being re-released in theatres. As soon as that ET music started I realized that I might be about to openly weep during a PREVIEW. But I was keeping it cool. Angling my face away from the side where she was sitting and thinking about kites. Then, of course, right at the end of the preview ET points his finger at Elliot’s chest and says “RIIIIIIGHT HEEEEERE” and I make one of those intake-of-breath sounds like a truck just backed up over my nuts. I blubbered. So busted.
Then there’s that part of Robin Hood where the rooster sings Not In Nottingham. A friend of mine was watching this recently when I awoke hung-over and fragile after my birthday. I had to leave the room when the bunny gave that crumb to the mouse. Holy shit. I was not ready for that. Waterworks.
The last is TV commercials. I know I need a vacation when I get teared up during insurance ads and shit like this. But that’s probably Tom Waits’ fault.
My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul. In it, a woman in London calls pizza places for delivery in full knowledge that places in England don’t deliver. She does this to give herself an excuse to yell and rant and generally blow off steam. I do the same thing.
But see with me it’s my bank. Motherfuckin’ Bank of America. I hate BofA with every fiber of my being. For the times they placed a hold on my money for reasons they weren’t even able to describe to the many many overdraft fees I’ve incurred because of their slowness to post my checks. They’re dicks. Dicks, I say!
But what can you do? They’re too big. And they DO NOT give a shit about you, me or any person who still takes out money orders to pay the rent. You’ve got a better chance of Jake or Gary Busey biting off your pinky finger at some point in your lifetime than Bank of America conceding a fuckin’ dime even if was admittedly their fault your checking account now has a minus sign next to it. Weird example, but correct.
So, you know what I do? Every time I really want to rage about something I go into my local branch and scope out the personnel. I avoid the tellers, they’re just schlubs like me and don’t actually have any personal stake in their fucked-up company. I find a manager, preferably a disagreeable one and start discussing my personal finances. If the manager is nice then I don’t make a fuss. I don’t want to be mean. There’s no sense in ruining a persons day just for doing their job. But if they try and say that these inconsistencies in their systems are somehow my fault then it’s on. Oh, it’s fuckin’ on. If I play my cards right I can have both of us screaming obscenities at each other within ten minutes. I usually leave the branch yelling something like “You’re bloodsuckers! BLOODSUCKERS!”.
I come away from the situation feeling cleansed- miles high and completely Zen. I walk home with a smile on my face and a whole holy host of angels singing Cloud Nine by The Temptations. It’s my therapy. It’s my stress ball. It’s my heroin.
Does this make me a dick? Probably.
But FUCK Bank of America.
Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is someone missing a soul?
Sure, they can be annoying, loud and obnoxious. So can you, dude. We still call you to hang out, right?
Shit, man. Kids are the best. Our whole generation is so committed to our irony and sarcasm that it can be incredibly refreshing to hang out with someone who thinks sunshine is all it takes to have a good day. Y’know what? I DO want to play ninja turtles. And the fact that you want to be Raphael too just proves that you know what you’re talking about. We’re going to get along just fine.
Kids are intuitive, logical and sometimes wise completely unintentionally. The other day, I was taking care of Katie, who is a little strawberry haired goofball who looks like a mini-princess version of Prince Harry. She’s four and a half, but sweet on this kid she goes to kindergarten with. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. “Nope.” I said deciding it would be impossible to put “I recently had my heart broken and so I’m a little wary of girls and since from a biological standpoint being gay isn’t an option I’m gonna go ahead and be alone for awhile.” in terms she would understand. Later during our walk through Logan Square she said, “There will always be pretty girls who want to be with you.” Holy shit. Have you ever gotten a there-are-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea talk from a four and a half year old? It’s the only time I ever believed it.
And hey, it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but I can’t wait to have children. Boy or girl, I won’t care. Oh, you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t have what it takes to be a parent? I’m a preschool teacher and nanny, dude. I’ve got the paternal instinct on lock. I look totally adorable holding a baby and I can change a diaper in ten seconds. The poop doesn’t even bother me anymore. Shit.
I plan on teaching the little one to run up to people, ask them to bend down to their level and then whisper “Psychic powers.” in their ear before running away. How awesome will that be?
Plus, I’m totally looking forward to raising kids with you.
I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.
More and more, recently, I’ve been running into a specific type of person I call “new”. They come in all shapes and sizes, but more often than not it’s a specific type of flighty girl that seems to pop up more and more frequently around me as of late. You can usually tell them by their dress and complete obliviousness to everything that’s happened in the world as of one week ago. It’s as if they’ve just stepped off their spaceship moments prior to meeting you. Their presence would be stranger if it didn’t make life so goddamned interesting.
They step out of their apartments wearing rain galoshes, tutus and scarves- dressed like wizards trying to pass themselves off as muggles. They’re convinced that rain means heartbreak somewhere and have no concept of how weird a five second pause in the middle of a sentence seems to the rest of us. Sometimes I can swear I catch them looking at a faucet like it’s some sort of new invention. Not in the awed oh-my-god-what-is-that observation, but in the running-water-how-quaint-I-shall-make-a-note-of-this kind of way.
They have no cell phone. They don’t use the Internet. They have no TV. They have no interest in who Judd Apatow is and they talk to homeless men on the subway. They give their heart willingly. They’re convinced people are inherently good. They get taken advantage of often.
I have depressing thoughts of a sentient race of aliens who landed here and disguised themselves to look like us. While here, they are robbed, lied to and laughed at. Their hearts are broken and we reveal to them who we really are as a species. But they just stand there and stare at us with quiet observation and amazement, much in the same way we look at gorillas and marvel at “how much they are like us.”
I really fuckin’ hope this is all in my head.
A friend of mine recently made a joke about how an old boyfriend of hers really liked to lick her butt. This information, in turn, made another one of my friends almost throw up in the sink. I realized at that moment that, because of the internet, it takes some seriously depraved shit to disgust me. Tentacle stuff? Girls with cups? Horses? Run the list. I’ve seen it. The paltry day-to-day nasty stuff is just something I wrinkle my face at and say “Gross.” before finishing my sandwich.
I can’t imagine what could possibly make me puke at this point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s out there. I don’t go looking for this stuff, but it finds me. It’s your buddy going “Dude, check this out.” Followed by you saying “Holy shit, Mike! Why the fuck would you show me that?”
I remember a first date with a girl wherein my good friend and roommate, Ned, showed us that video of those Japanese girls eating baby eels out each other’s butts. I can’t remember why we stayed to watch or why he did it in the first place, but we ended up dating for over a year. The girl and I. Not Ned.
But I digress, the point is that I’m completely desensitized, German accents and shit are irrevocably linked in my mind and I would never lick a butthole.
Hell, you want to see some truly awful stuff? It’s called Two Girls- One Cab. In it, two girls shit all over a taxi and then eat the ENTIRE CAB. Including the steering wheel. Sick stuff.
I could never be your Gregory Peck, Cary Grant or Robert Mitchum, but I would shoot the the moon from the sky to be your Arthur Miller.
So, just let me become a better writer and steal a nuclear warhead and I’ll get back to you.
I will never ever move to the suburbs. I plan on having kids someday and there is no way I’d ever let my kids be brought up there. Some people say they’ve moved to the suburbs because it’s a better place to raise kids. Bullshit. I think parents move to the suburbs because it’s an EASIER place to raise kids. The schools are better and there’s less crime due to their gated-ness and remote location. I’d rather raise my kids around crackheads and speeding traffic than make them attend a school with a two-thousand strong student body. When you get a large enough group of suburban kids together it can turn into some Lord of the Flies shit real quick.
Why?
Boredom. These kids are fuckin’ bored. The craziest dudes I knew who did the most insane amounts of whatever they could get their hands on and had the most depraved sex at the youngest age were always from the suburbs because their entire growing-up period was some weird larval stage in which their world was some culturally unstimulating morass of a city constructed to be idyllic (gasping for breath). Like some Pleasantville type shit.
Parents might get nostalgic about the times when the only place for them to hang out in their town was the local burger joint, but it’s a different time now and kids have an alternative to being bored without having to drive three counties over to where someone discovered a rock outcropping that looked like a pair of breasts.
And then there’s the cruelty. Sure, kids are cruel no matter where you go, but when your school is your entire world with no actual big-city-real-life situations around you, I think it can make you myopic to point that you actually believe school is all there is. Like it will go on forever. I think that’s why kids sometimes think they need that “dominant male monkey motherfucker” attitude to survive what doesn’t even amount to five years of their lives. There should be signs posted everywhere reminding people that nobodys social standing will carry over into college although everyone will be getting laid there. I think that would do some good.
I could raise my kids in the city, country or any country around the world, but I feel that they’d get a better understanding of the real world going to school on the fuckin’ moon than in the suburbs.
I’m not saying if you were raised in a suburb that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict who hates on kids weaker than you. I’m just saying I wouldn’t raise my kids there. And that you’re a sex-crazed drug addict. No, seriously, I’m sure you’re very cool.
