+++
In my younger and more ambitious years of being a wretched little shit, you’d have been hard pressed to find some tomfoolery afoot, that I was not somehow involved in, or directly responsible for.
In my neighborhood, I was the troublemaker.
I was that kid.
You probably know the type…
That one your parents warned you about.
The obnoxious little shit in the back of the class, always making a fool out of himself to get attention.
What some might call the class clown, perhaps.
The weird guy in class…
The kid who slowly but surely, stopped getting invitations to birthday parties and sleepovers.
I probably don’t need to tell you who started getting picked last in dodgeball…
It was this stinky kid named Tom.
But I was down there…
For sure.
Would one be safe in assuming I had some disciplinary issues?
Bet your sweet ass.
I mean, come on… my only friends were always in detention with me. So yea…
Piss on your tardy bell.
You can miss me with that silly homework assignment, Mr. Babydick!
Yea…
Solid game plan, hot shot.
Fucking knocked it out of the park, Stud.
Bravo.
Then there’s my folks and such.
What some might call family… In mine, I was also that one.
Every family has a version of me to some degree…
…if they’re fucking lucky.
*winks
You know the one.
You’re thinking of who it is now, maybe?
Less the black sheep, more the one who would fuck it.
Hey… don’t blame me. You thought it.
I just plant the seeds. You have to smoke that shit.
Understand me.
If there was some shit going down, or some shit getting fucked up, I probably had a shit covered hand in it, to the tenth digit degree.
If shenanigans were being had, they were most likely being had by yours truly.
If lifelong patterns of toxic coping were being ingrained into any pimple faced dipshits…
…well, I think you’re starting to get the picture.
The real-life Problem Child. But without that whole icky ginger factor.
Praise the lord.
Picture me if you will, fully equipped with a slingshot in my back pocket and sandy blonde hair, parted down the middle with the same questionable judgement, of which I also employed as a means of existence…
But let’s slow down a touch. I’d hate for you to get me wrong.
After all.
If you think I’m sitting here, boasting about being an arrogant little sociopath, who was constantly saying racist things and generally just being an all around terrible human being...
…well.
You’d be goddamned right.
Well done.
Nailed it.
But I’m working on that.
And for the record, I hated everyone equally, as their own unique individuals. All of whom, were united in the humble solidarity of being identical pieces of useless shit, in my mind.
And respectfully so…
Ish.
I’ve since developed a distaste for hate in any manner, except for mayonnaise on anything, and whoever invented Women’s rights…
What?
You were all thinking it too, don’t be coy now…
…relax.
He’s got jokes people.
Pump the brakes there, Wendy the SJW.
Kindly take another chill pill, Cindy poo.
Debbie downer, please proceed to slow that roll.
And Miss Karen…
Quit being a bitch, please.
We get it.
But I digress…
Hear me, when I tell you I am 100% serious, when I say that Women are fucking miracles.
Miracles that can kill you in your sleep.1
Moving right along…
I’ve also come to understand that arrogance is usually just the front man for an insecure Angel investor2, who’s shit is so screwed up that they are unaware of the fact that the perceived hardships they lament, are actually all self imposed…
And whose priorities are so out of whack, that they find logic in the trading of their meaningful relationships, in exchange for their coping mechanisms and their happiness for the sake of preserving the integrity of bullshit bouts of self-denial.
Or maybe they are just too much of a pussy to admit that they fucked up and were wrong.
No judgement.
I get it. You do you…
And look.
I’m sharing all this with you now, so you have a tiny peak into the chemical makeup of my mayhem…
…and to own it.
It matters.
Must call a bad duck, a bad duck.
Even if he’s your only duck.
But hey, if you’re good at something, never do it for free. Right?
And if it ain’t broke, don’t fuck it.
Well…
That’s not meant to say that I am advocating for, nor have I myself, made any sort of monetary gains, from my formative years of being a horrible little derelict.
I did though.
Lots… as it were.
All that, while also topping the charts of several law enforcement agencies, and managing to attract the attention of some rather nefarious government watch lists.
Lists that are looked upon by the kind of eyes you definitely don’t want anywhere near you. The kind belonging to a handful of select agencies, who are known for some shady business practices in foreign markets.
You know…
…the kind who employ some rather hostile negotiation tactics, wherein if the terms set forth in an arrangement don’t fancy their liking, they’ve been known to orchestrate a coux and proceed to install their own brand new hand-picked adjudicator. One who has a belief system that’s slightly more parallel with the bottom line.
Pretty routine stuff, right.
Right…
They’ve also been known to employ some rather unsavory interrogation methods in the past...
Fun stuff.
If you’re one of the lucky ones, you might get solicited by a girl who’s way out of your league. Perhaps with an inviting offer to buy you a drink, but then actually metamorphosing into what shows up to the date: three well-built men, all wearing similar black suits, who then proceed to black-bag your dumb ass and force you head-first, into the open door of an unmarked van…
*tires screech
…only to startle you awake later that day with a face full of ice cold piss and a syringe full of sodium pentathol. Thus, making the standard employment of their tried and true REID techniques a total redundancy.
Charming.
Another favorite method begins by immobilizing you to a desk and then proceeding to rinse off your your insides with some good ole’ fashioned home-grown, all organic diesel fuel.
If the specialist is in a particular mood, he could just make you and your entire bloodline disappear without a trace.
How wholesome.
So relax…
Not a single penny was earned from my diligent efforts of chronically tormenting my loved ones, or from my pathological fabrications.
Or from the Federal Domestic-Terrorism charges.
Yup. You heard it right.
Utter insanity…
Brought about by a half hearted enthusiasm towards the fine art of disguise and the clumsy disposition of one of my top crew members.
A real rookie mishandling of my top-secret project.
Up until then, the brown eyed bobble-head, (who normally chose to substitute Xanax in place of the traditional Pez,) was a real integral part of the gang...
My girlfriend at the time.
Love her to death3, but it was her lackadaisical approach to espionage, which allowed the dossier to fall into enemy hands.
Consequently, her assumed role in the gang was given some unwanted street cred.
That silly piece of intercepted communiqué was forwarded up the chain of ascending governing bodies…
…it was only after we were escorted off campus by armed police officers and expelled from school, bitch-slapped with a dozen federal injunctions, and comprehensively marooned up shits creek… did my partner in crime get offered her aforementioned promotion.
A real power-move up the ladder of the criminal elite, from her then current role, as a spiteful butter-fingered bitch, into an alleged aspiring hit-woman.
But also still a bitch…
The very best kind, as it happens.
All that chaos, from a short dialogue between two characters in a short story I was working on… that just so happened to involve an assassination plot. Involving a sitting American President of the United States…
…the land that I love.
So sue me.
I’ll be the first to admit, my unorthodox methodology and crass sense of humor isn’t for everyone.
Can’t please ‘em all, right?
That’s right.
And I’m okay with that.
Not your fault you have shitty taste.
That’s on your friends for not being funnier.
And on your folks, for either sheltering you, coddling you, or the worst… lying to you about the insipid truths of the world.
If we’re being real with ourselves and each other, we can begin to shake the jitters and start to ditch that stifling self-doubt, which sometimes forces us to be someone we’re not…
…in an effort to pander to people we don’t even like.
Well actually.
I have to back up a tad bit more… one last time.
Pinky swear…
Sucker.
Throughout my adolescence, I was perpetually up to no good.
On any given day, my backpack contained random assorted paraphernalia.
What are these goodies of which I speak, you say?
Glad you asked…
I had extremely warped grasp on concepts like legality spectrums, or appropriate behavior, so my idea of party favors might have ranged anywhere from some relatively harmless kid stuff: stink bombs, smoke bombs, whoopee cushions etc…
…all the way up to “firecrackers,” that were actually the equivalent of a quarter stick of dynamite.
You might find some glass viles that I filled with mercury, which I’d liberated from the thermostat of a prefabbed house that I ransacked, the previous evening.
Don’t ask…
Trust me.
I approached everyday as though I was the flesh and blood embodiment of youthful rebellious bravado.
Around that time, my slightly older cousins exposed me to the kind of movies that would end up becoming the foundation for my character profile.
Looking back on everything now, I have no quarrels with some who’ve suggested that impressionable children can be negatively influenced by the things they see on tv shows and hollywood movies.
If you consume anything on a regular enough basis it stands to become a part of you in some way.
As a result, I had a rather nefarious gang of misfits as the archetypes for my eventual assumed fictional alter egos.
With thier powers combined, I began to warp my already skewed understanding of things like right and wrong, or fiction versus non-fiction.
Actions and consequences.
Scrawny little Me…
Impressionable enough to buy into the percieved popularity of the only heroes I had at the time...
I decided to become a master of the craft.
I began watching the standard bastard curicculum, meticulously studying films like Home Alone and Problem Child.
The Sting and The Thomas Crown Affair.
My idols became Bart Simpson, Eric Cartmen and Dennis the Menace.
My mentors were Tarantino and Palahniuk.4
My big brothers were Ethan and Joel Coen, along with Larry, Curly, and Moe.
But not Shemp.
My heroes were James Bond and Indiana Jones, respectively, though I seemed to pay more attention when the villain was center stage, and began to take a great deal of pride in being bad, if only for the sake of being bad.
I had contempt for any and all forms of authority or rules. As a result, I thought it wise to hone my skills.
At first, with mostly PG-rated pranks, like setting my version of a Claymore land mine, (made out of some Lego, spraypaint, baking soda and vinegar, later, upgrading to paint & dry ice), all designed to detonate when stepped upon.
The varying chemical reactions would direct the force of the blast directly upward, for a real saucy crotch shot of hot pink neons or a maybe a mid-day stroll in the yard, followed by a not so covert spritzing of utility marker orange.
Avant garde assault.
The Erector Set that I got for my birthday was used for anything other than it’s intended purpose…
Eventually ending up rendered into crudely sharpened spikes for my Impromptu Gange Pits, for some unfortunate barefooted person.
Snares comprised of dental floss and partially melted Starburst.
My Lincoln Logs became cannon fodder or door jams.
Everything is all fun and games until half of the Pomona Police Department along with the entire fire brigade, including the Fire Chief himself, are summoned to my residence in response to a call from my frantic mother, who found me rendering molotov cocktails in two dozen mason jars, using syphoned gas from the lawnmower and leftover packing peanuts from Christmas.
I was 8 years old.
I was the living, breathing Problem Child…
Making the Red headed Namesake’s, look like a choir boy throwing a hissy fit because his pussy hurts, in comparison.
My modus operandi was straight out of screenplays and plot twists.
Antiheros and antogonists… more the merrier, I say.
Only, instead of plunging a burning iron from the foyer staircase and smashing a would-be burglar on the bridge of his nose, I terrorized my Pastor and the rest of Sunday school as often as I could…
Dare I say… I did it religiously.
I eventually got kicked out for putting a M-80 in the pastor’s tailpipe, causing significant (and rather expensive) damage, according to my old man.
The well deserved disavowing only came after being banned from playing with the other children, after it was exposed that one of the little stool pigeons Dimed me out, after he got caught telling the joke I told him, (poorly, I’m assuming) to his uncle. The uncle freaked out and went straight to the kids mom… who then tells dad, and then the kids dad is who ended up having the honor of dropping that fucking gold nugget on my poor grandmother.
Oof.
I had to hear my gramma say penis…
Not a fan. Not a fan at all…
But at least she got the joke. Respect, Gramms.5
My church going days were over as of then, and understandably so.
Fret not. I didn’t mind that much anyway…
As it turns out, I had much bigger ambitions.
The type that required a fuck ton of learning. Where does a kid go to learn?
Yup. You guessed it.
Shady uncles and the internet. But I went a more formal route… I went back to class.
Literally.
I was checking out books from the library, so I could steal the ones I really wanted, or I’d use the school’s dial-up internet to illegally pirate the Anarchists Cookbook, onto a floppy disk.6
This was on those primitive computers they had at the time(~1999). I was using the libraries printers to print off instruction manuals about demolition and chemistry, and several other nefarious topics…
Honestly, things I shouldn’t have been so fascinated with, but was nonetheless.
Learning how to pick tumbler-locks with paper clips, in elementary school.
Organizing heists with fellow students, to raid the teachers coveted supply of candy in her locked cabinet. Two of us as the distraction, two more as the “plants”, who remained hidden under our desks. Allowing us ample time to Jimmy the lock and relocate the teachers entire secret stash of sugary treasure. All while she and the other kids were at recess.
Even at that young age, I knew the power of secrets.
Even then, I understood the ramifications of being exposed.
With all the arrogant shenanigans and tomfoolery abound, there was still one area where I was particularly self-conscious.
My thoughts. My writing. My stories…
They also happened to be my deepest passion.
I always felt compelled to tell stories, ever since I remember putting words down on paper.
Anytime I had an idea (which was known to happen on occasion) I would just furiously hammer out whatever silly story that I was working on, often in a frenzied episode of apprehension.
Sometimes… after school on the bleachers.
Sometimes locked in the bathroom.
Looking over my shoulder, in a room with only me...
Panicked.
Funny as it sounds and as fearless as I was, for whatever reason… I believed that sharing my inner feelings with anyone was a sign of weakness.
That if they read my weird jokes and unorthodox outlooks on the way the world works, they would judge me, or abandon me, or not love me…
It was my special place… my escape.
It quickly became an obsession. There would be a short story about a monkey that climbs the rose trellis at sorority houses, in order to spy on disrobing coeds.
Or one about me channeling my inner Bart Simpson and detailing my plans to systematically destroy the school’s plumbing with a coordinated cherry bomb attack… I’d write about myself sitting in the principal’s office, victoriously waiting for the authorities to arrive. All the while, using the school’s phone to rack up thousands of dollars in collect-call charges, to 1800 numbers along the likes of 1(800) SUK-DICK or 1(888)BIG-TITS.
I know, I know, I know…
Legendary.
As I was saying…
It was around that time, I also found my grandfather’s porn stash.
To this day, still the most impressive collection I have ever seen, hands down.
Hands everywhere, that one summer.
Mad respect, Gramps. RIP
It was like jacking off in a fucking time machine.
I digress.
My stories were everything.
My notes and journals were my best friends.
But the pattern remained… I would scribble as fast as I could, till I was satisfied that it was perfect. Then, when the story was finished. When I felt it was absolutely right...
I would immediately burn it.
Childish, perhaps.
But, the anxiety I experienced was dreadful.
To put it mildly.
My mind… just laying there like wounded prey, fully exposed with its innards spilling all of my innermost secrets and fears. Waiting to be devoured by the predatory monsters that I imagined lurked around my bedroom savannah.
Practically begging to be consumed.
God, even now, the thought is almost unbearable...
Although, looking back on it now… I’m quite certain, that actually being eaten alive is much worse.
Maybe.
Hmm… fuck it.
I am kinda bummed out in a way, because I’m sure some of it had some substance, though most of it was probably horrible.
Would be interesting to see how my adolescent mind and my current outlook of bumbling idiot would contrast.
Live and you learn, I suppose. And after all is said and done…
Shit happens when you party naked.
The point of all this… is that maybe in the act of repeating that process so many times, (the burning of the stories that is,) I eventually learned that no matter what I do, where I do it, or when I do it… I’m gonna have to face that fire.
One way, or the other.
I can destroy what I create, in fear of ridicule and rejection.
I can censor my thoughts and mask my feelings, in an effort to ease my anxiety.
Or… I can own my ideas and use them for good.
I can harness the pain to craft tales of lore and sonnets about love.
I can channel my regret and the lessons I’ve learned, to tell stories of nobility and honor.
I can make heroes into villains and villains into saviors.
I can make a tragedy funny.
I can make comedy dark.7
I can flip the script. I can shift the narrative.
That’s my job.
Always has been. And I’ve always known it…
But now I fucking believe it.
Words are powerful. They matter.
Stories change the world.
Stories are how we pass down knowledge to future generations. It’s how we instill values and teach morals. It’s how we shape our societies.
So, I can use my words as a tool, aimed at one thing only: to make complete and total strangers feel something like I felt. Like I feel…
…if only for a moment.
A moment is all it takes.
Good.
Bad.
Mad, sad, or laughing your goddamn ass off… just feel anything at all.
Using only my words.
If I can make you feel, I can touch your heart.
If you touch someone’s heart, you can change their mind…
…and if you can change minds, you can change the motherfuckin’ world.
I truly believe that. Crazy right.
Look at me now, all grown up…
And telling dick jokes to save the planet. Just as God intended…
Probably.
You’re welcome.
In all seriousness…
My tortuous journeys can act as a cautionary tale for some unfortunate soul, who may be going through something similar. Or has in the past.
Anguish is universal.
Fear is primal.
Stories can make you feel like you’re not alone in the world.
Like even if there’s nobody else on Earth that gets you, there’s at least one crazy fuck out there, who can possibly match your level of depravity.
Or understand your depths of despair.
And if you’re saying to yourself right now: “yea, but what I’m going through is so much worse, nobody could possibly feel the way I do…” Well, you’re not wrong for feeling the way you do.
But, I assure you… if there were an Olympic game for feeling like shit, I’d at least take bronze. And I’m okay with that.
First place is too much pressure, anyway.
Perfection is bullshit.
However.
The diligent pursuit of perfection, is vital.
It forces one to better themselves in some way, every single day.
No excuses.
And sometimes bettering yourself can simply be you, being kind to yourself, or maybe forgiving yourself.
Or removing yourself from negative energy. Negative people…
Bettering yourself is relative.
Progress, not perfection.
Baby steps. But steps forward…
Always.
Sometimes when we must walk through the darkness, just knowing that somewhere out in the void, there is another soul who is lost too… can make all the difference.
It is up to those who’ve lost their way, to find one another and blaze a new path, by working together to create a new source of light.
Making the world brighter, in doing so.
If I can help even one person with my stories… all my suffering will not have been in vain.
That’s reason enough.
At the end of the day, I can obliterate my silly ramblings out of some useless fear…
Or I can risk someone else destroying my work with their judgment and criticism.
I’ll take my chances.
+++
And also happen to be my favorite part about this shitshow we call life. Shout out to my mother, Rena. I love you mom. More than you know. But not nearly as much as you deserve.
The guys behind the curtain, calling all the shots.
Shout out to Miss Jackrabbit. The most badass biotch I know.
Ironically, I’m honored to say that at this very moment, Chuck Palahniuk is my actual mentor. Life’s funny like that sometimes. Shout out to Professor P! You’re the man. And I’m coming for you… because that’s what you taught me to do… Topple the Gods. Even if one is you. Respect.
Love you Grandma.
For the babies of the bunch: that little icon you press to store your work on the computer. Yea, they were an actual disk back in my day. So…
Work on that, or whatever.
And I do… best believe that shit, Puddin Pop.