Light A Fire

The blank wall is my dear friend and is the first to wish me happy birthday as my resentful eyelids pry apart. I didn’t have to say a word, no pathetic hints were dropped for my own benefit, but the wall wished me well regardless. I love you, you fucking wall. Be forever mine. Marry me and take me away from all of this blight. Cradle me in your apathetic arms and shower me with kisses unspecific.

I would like to say that no one but me must know what it means to turn 19 while friendless and stripped in the spiteful cold of minimum security, but in fact there are lots of idiots in here doing exactly that. And I suppose that for every idiot kicking up his heels in such a shit hole on such an uneventful day there is a special wall with cracks like an uncaring mouth, from which comes neither praise nor reprimands, not compliments or insults; only consistency. And though things could be worse I refuse to admit it, and though there is no one to blame but myself I have my list.

I wonder mindlessly if any of the deeply wounded pricks I share my time with will find it in their sticky hearts to let me decide the day’s programming in the television room. I already know the answer. Fucking jerks. Selfish, rough, and tireless bunch of liars. The whole lot would be better off dead, and every single one of them—every last goddamned drop—will one day be so. I cast this spell personally on the very morning of my birthday. It is the gift I give to myself, since my “good friend” the wall is apparently too freaking CHEAP and/or LAZY to have taken care of my material needs on this SPECIAL day. I place into my own hands the ability to decide whether or not immortality will be given to any of my scumbag brethren, and in my infinite wisdom I withhold eternal life from the entire lot. So there.

I tell the wall thanks for nothing and my cell mate calls me a nutcase for the nth time. He isn’t dangerous so I tell him to go fuck a pig and he punches his cot and hates himself. I hate him too, although it must be noted that he is my friend (second in line only to the wall). All at once I am more tired of him than I ever was of my dear, insipid mother, yet I need him nearly as much as I did her in my infancy. My needs, in order of greatest to least, are as follows: water, someone to listen to me, food, and titties. I always knew about food, water, and titties, but I was surprised by my need for an audience. I thought I was above it, see. I thought I was the ROMANTIC LONER type, strong and silent and callous; self reliant to a fault. But as it turns out, I am just as weak as the rest of you. I am the deceptive rubber band, thought to be new, seemingly elastic and oh so pliable, hanging innocently from your doorknob, but when taken in hand and stretched, I snap almost immediately, my new jagged ends cracking back and stinging your fingers. And it seems to me incredibly unfair to have to find out all of this fucking horseshit about myself at such a young age, when it seems the rest of you fucking stiffs get to walk the earth for most of your lives under the dry shell of illusion, but what can one do when one so plainly brings it all upon himself?

My cell mate’s name is Jody—which is fucking stupid, but I suppose it’s not his fault. Just more proof of how the birth of children causes most people to drop 10 full IQ points (my name is Pendel and the irony is not lost on me. So fuck you, too, DEAR READER).

Jody has the face of a young dog beaten to the point of unassailable mistrust, with a sloppy mop of mahogany hair and terrified eyes that belie his 22 years tooling around the planet earth as his old man’s whipping boy. When I first arrived at PRISON—after I was first flung to the floor of my temporary tomb by a couple of overly enthusiastic gorillas electroplated into uniforms that grossly over-sold the said gorillas professionalism, and after I had a chance to check my surroundings for explosives—my attention fell upon him glaring at me from his bed, and I assumed that I was at least two years his senior. Wanting to appear tough and together and completely in charge of my environment, I sneered like a complete cock and asked him when he was going to get his braces removed. “I ain’t got braces,” Jody sneered in return. Well, you’re gonna fucking need them soon enough, if you keep that fucking look on your puss, I said. He punched his cot and hated himself.

Before the sweet reward of television has a chance to numb the constant drone of nostalgic remorse coursing through the dead alleys of my mind, Jody and I must walk ourselves through perdition: modern day Dantes in dull jumpsuits and no fucking brains, we must enter the ninth ring and sit frozen in ice as the local sinners arranged around the room tell Satan all about the horrible tongue lashings they have received over the years, the ones inevitably responsible for bringing them to such a state as they currently find themselves. I can’t stand to go into any of these ramblings in much detail, it’s all so useless and petty. Rationalizations. People spout them like sweat—they cool the skin and keep the ego from overheating, so I guess you can’t fault a man for basically turning his life into a sauna, but fuck me, brother! You act as though I can’t spot a rationalization when I hear one! But now hear this, you twisted ass: I dress in them from head to toe every morning; my very skin is woven from the fabric of these lies; I am not carefully sculpted from the delicate carbon dripped from starlight and collected upon the gossamer smiles of angels, no sir, I am hewn strong from the cosmic rock of delusion. I am an old hand; a master of the art. I have not yet reached twenty in human years, but in the measure of my conceits I have sewn many seasons.

Give me hypocrisy or give me death. Whatever. I am beginning to bore myself.

So anyway, these assholes are full of bullshit, I can smell it a mile away, the shrink lets them get away with it, and it just makes me want to fucking puke. But who am I to judge? What must it be for Dr. Nothing to sit day in and day out listening to this worthless bunch of low-life criminals lie to themselves three days a week? One loser cries over the spilled milk of the American caste system and his place in it, another bemoans the ass of his wife as it gyrates endlessly over the cocks of others. Dr. Nothing asks Jody what HIS fucking beef is nearly every day, but Jody says nothing. He simply punches his thigh and hates himself.

“How about you, Pendel? How did you get here?”

Simple. I was busted selling weed.

“But how did you GET here?”

I was busted selling weed.

“But what made you—”

Look, friend, I see what you’re trying to do (and at this point I even lend the sad piece of shit a smile, TRYING my best to remain friendly because oh how I want good behavior), but really man, I was just busted selling fucking pot, and that’s about it.

And he gazes at me sadly, steadily, like he knows something I don’t. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t..but how much could it possibly matter? Can I change where I am now? Can I change what happened last year? Can I change a fucking thing? The future? I tolerate his dissection of me for maybe fifteen or twenty seconds, and then I just say, hey, it’s all good—just let the chips fall where they may. He lets it go for now and on the inside my guts buckle like an old bridge.

Turns out television sucked. There was a baseball game on, and since baseball is considered an American past-time, it does nothing for me. I ask if anybody is watching, and one of the undesirables calls me a faggot and offers to break my arm. I sulk. Jody sulks. I meditate briefly on the irony of steroids and how every motherfucker on the motherfucking screen mounted high on the wall (not my friend, but just the friend of my friend) has probably taken the drug as recently as NOW, and how whoever sold it to them was probably doing just fine on this, the anniversary of my birth. Maybe he/she’s even a doctor or shrink or some other respected member of this twisted smoking metal wreck of a society. The bridge of my guts collapses completely and crumples with frightening ease into the river as the trapped occupants inside the motor vehicles struggle vainly with door handles and panic, and as they loose the fight and turn blue from death with surprised eyes and unresolved passions, I gather myself and return to my cell. I climb into my bunk and I tell the wall that I’ve had enough, that I give up, that loneliness is no longer an option on the table and it’s time for the two of us, the wall and I, to think about getting out of here. Good behavior.

Good behavior.

The wall looks blandly back at me and does not betray its doubt, but I feel it. I punch the cot and hate myself.

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Dormant Past, Vegetable Future

I spoke with my Uncle Ben yesterday. He was so stiff with me that I had to hold a mirror under his nose to see if he was breathing. Whatever. Zero love lost. It all boils down to this: I have my windshield court date in two weeks. I’m cool with it, I have no fears. I will do my time on the community service chain gang and become a real man of the people. Next thing you know, I’m Harry Truman, baby, making the highway a reality. The deception of Uncle Ben shall activate the course of his own destruction as he is crushed under the weight of my political machine.

I’ve had so many conversations with responsible elders regarding the new chapter of my action-packed life that it makes my head spin. The problem with many of these dependable people is that their lives are so void of risk, it’s a wonder they get laid at all. I don’t want that. I don’t want a sexless existence void of passion. My dry mother wants me to take on a mailroom position at my uncle’s law firm. Yeah, like THAT’S gonna fucking happen. I’ll take my own life before I submit to Uncle Ben’s plan to “whip that punk into shape”. My dad has a harebrain scheme concocted where I become an air traffic controller. Brilliant. He mentioned it to me and I said wha…? I turned to Google and typed it in, and was immediately presented with numerous lists of the most stressful jobs in the country, all with air traffic controller in the top ten. One site put it right behind ‘miner’. Fucking perfect. My dad threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “Well, you’re not just gonna get your life handed to you, Pendel! You’re gonna have to work someday, damnit!” I said fine, I’ll jump right in and defuse BOMBS for a freaking living. Would that make you happy? “I’m sure whatever idea you come up with will be better,” he said, in dickishly sarcastic overtones. Of course Mr. Hanson and Dr. Duchenheimer are still laboring under the delusions that college is still within my reach, if only I would reach out my sullied hand and grasp the cleansing light of knowledge…wrap it desperately in a lover’s embrace…

It’s simply not going to happen. Two years of Clark State Community College rubbing elbows with even bigger assholes than the freaks in my summer school classes; working the night shift at some pestilential hole-in-the-ground; another couple of years (or more) studying my pretty fingers to the bone at some rock-bottom, no-name little college until I earn that coveted BA. And then what? The rest of my life offered up for sacrifice at the alter of shady capitalism, my blood spilling into the coffers of nameless giants; giants with torsos thick with muscle rent from solid granite and kept strong with dreams wringed cruelly from the hearts of lesser men; featureless faces towering above me in the clouds, blanketed in mist, anonymous forever as they casually roar and shake the ground with thoughtless steps as heavy as mountains. I won’t fucking have it. I’d never last anyway. I doubt very highly that many in middle management—heavily scarred from merciless battles in the daily pit—would tolerate being told to go fuck themselves on a daily basis. Besides, none of those little college bitches are ready for a dick like mine. Pendel ‘The Hammer’ Haight.

Dear old dad stopped by the room the other day to say that he spoke with Benny the Hun’s father “man-to-man.” My old man is painfully archaic at times, but he is growing on me. For whatever reason, he stays in my corner, slitting open my blind eyes whenever they swell too shut to see. So anywho’s, he tells Benny’s dad that he’s terribly sorry for the pain I’ve caused everyone in their household, and he knows how horribly embarrassing it must have been for them to have to have such violence target their family in their own church parking lot. It’s so bizarre to me how everyone links church and embarrassment. Seems to me there is very little shelter to be found in this house of cards we call God—but I’m not gonna digress. Dad also tells the guy exactly WHY I did what I did, what Benny said to Clare and the insults endured by both of his children at the hands of Henderson. My dad tells the guy that if charges are pressed, he’s gonna be forced to talk about that, and he also tells the guy that Clare just hasn’t been the same after such insidious slander (Clare is WAAAAAY past it), and he’d love to avoid pressing charges for verbal assault (is there even such a thing?), but that Mr. Henderson was gonna have to meet him halfway. Amazingly, this flimsy dam of reasoning is holding for the moment. If I pay for the hospital bills arising from the broken nose (YES!) and cover the loss of the crappy sandal ($85!), the Henderson’s will most likely not press charges. Also, they apologized to Clare, and Benny the Hun’s got to attend a few weekdays of pew cleaning to make up for his sins.

I would, of course, have rather gotten off scott-free, but I guess this will do.

In other news, Sugarbear seems dead-set on living with me and Benji as soon as I get out of my summer classes. His dad has a house we can rent on the cheap in the shadier section of town, and Sugarbear has promised infinite fun in the form of weed and acid until we all mature or the house burns down, whatever comes first. This news, at least, pleased my father. I didn’t tell him about the drugs—I’ll probably keep that to myself. Sugarbear’s gonna stick close and attend Wittenberg University. Not a bad place to go for such a fuckup, really. Bear’s dad is an alumnus, and so Bear didn’t have to break his back getting in. Whatever. Take what you can, burn the rest.

More to come soon. Any suggestions on what an anti-social and overly-aggressive young man can do for a living would be most welcome at this point. I don’t know why I never thought about such matters before. I think I’m so pessimistic about anything that the future has in store that I’d rather lower the blast shields and keep my head down, barreling through the world without much thought, claiming to be ignorant of any trampled in my wake. But I felt them under my feet, and I stomped harder as they passed under.

Maybe landscaping?

Mmmm Bop Saturday

I had my Saturday with Mr. Hanson, dream date extraordinaire. He is such an asshole. He walks in the door dressed like it’s Wednesday, as if his entire life is spent in those cheap “nice clothes” that teachers so often wear, like they’ve had them for decades but can’t afford or be bothered to shop for anything new. He says to me all sunny like, “I think it would be good for us to just take today and get familiar with each other.” I said if he wants to get familiar with someone he should go home and do it with his wife. I’m sure she’d be happy for the change. He immediately changed gears on me and threw some pamphlets down in front of my face with a nasty snarl. They were for SAT tests, and I just had to laugh. I told him, hey, what are you, deaf? I’m not going to college, and I’m not going to put myself through any of these de-humanizing, categorizing, and petty ranking exercises.

I should know better than to say such things. He of course went off the handle, talking endlessly about how I’m killing my own future, resigning myself to a limited existence, and how his college years were the best years of his life (again with this…what’s he been doing with the rest of it, I ask you?). I told him that the more he opens his fucking mouth about it, the more I want to dig post holes for the rest of my life. I’d rather stuff cheap toys into cereal boxes for the next 50 goddamn years than to listen to even ONE MORE middle-aged loser with his best years behind him tell me how I’m letting life pass me by. Hanson’s sitting here, at my parent’s stupid kitchen table, on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, talking to a person less than half his age who doesn’t even like him, and he’s accusing ME of letting life pass by? I guarantee you that on his death bed, Hanson is going to look back on the time he spent with me and he will regret it. He will mention my name with tears in his eyes as some unfortunate soul turns him over to wipe his ass and clean his puss-filled sores; Hanson will feel the coldness of the wipe on his withered rump cheeks and he will say, “Pendel…why did I do it?,” confusing his orderly for life. And at that very moment, fifteen-hundred miles away, I will suddenly stop in the middle of my nightly chat-room masturbation session, drop the hunk of shoelace I was using as a tourniquet from around my neck, bringing to a screeching halt the autoerotic asphyxiation session that would have otherwise taken my life. I will then suffer a grand mal seizure, the world around me will dissolve away into a silver-grey mist, and I will abruptly come to my senses fifteen months later in a Russian slave-labor camp on a bright, sunny, Saturday morning while embroiled in a heated conversation with a young Russian man named Pavel, who is seated across from me at a table in the middle of a well-kept Russian slave-labor camp kitchen. I will be angrily shouting that he is wasting his life, and he will be asking me how I got the scars around my neck. I will never be heard from again.

But all of that has yet to happen. For the time being, there is Mr. Hanson, and he is asking me what I will do after graduation. I shrug. I don’t really care to answer him. He presses me. “Don’t give me your disaffected youth bullshit, Pendel,” he says. “You are going to have to do SOMETHING. Even if it’s only living on the street or pushing drugs. I just want to know what it is.” Pushing drugs. Ha. Who came up with that saying? Is it truly possible to push drugs onto people who don’t want them? I said to him, hey, you know, that’s a decent idea. I hadn’t considered it. Thanks.

It was odd to watch his scowl deepen into his face. It happened slowly, as if he aged in front of my eyes. It was kind of cool, really, like a special effect in a movie. I said wow. He said “Wow what?” I said, look man, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t thought about it that much. I’ll probably move out and get a job somewhere.

He gazed at me and after a second he kind of snorted and he said, “From what I hear you’ll have to get out of jail first.” I said, fuck what you hear, and even so, what difference does it make to you? And he says, “Nothing, but you should know that it can be hard for an ex-con to find a job, Pendel.” I had to laugh at that. Touché. We touched on how he has spoken to other teachers about me, and how they all think I am smart, but VERY disinterested, and my attitude makes it hard for anyone to want to reach out. My only comment to this was I am happy to know at least ONE thing I had planned turned out the way I wanted. He shook his head, but I think he could see that I am completely full of shit. The truth of the matter is that I simply have no idea where to go or what to do. I don’t fit in to this world and I am at a loss to know what to do next. He left, but said, “Same time, next week.” I am just all a-shiver with anticipation.

A couple of days later, I was going over all this crap with Dr. Douchenheimer the Wonder Shrink, and he asked me why I am so resistant to Hanson’s—or anybody’s—help or advice. I’ll tell all of you what I told him: I don’t know why. I just am. Then that bastard Douchenheimer had the balls to smile. I said, what’s up, douche-doc? And he smugly leans back in his richly-leathered chair and says, “Well, at least you admit that you’re resistant.” I said, hey that’s fucking great. You’re a genius. You gonna publish a paper on me now, Dr. Leather Chair? And he said not yet, and I said, yeah, I think you should hold off on that for the time being.

After leaving his office, I got winded for no reason whatsoever and had to sit down on a bench. It scared me, and I got all anxious and weirded out, and thought about going to the hospital, but it passed fairly quickly and I decided to ignore that it even happened at all. I just sat there for a while and thought about things. I thought about me. It ended up being too depressing of a pastime and I made myself stop.

I watched a man cross the street with a red hat and headphones. He was smiling about nothing, which is always an odd sight to see. A cop car was crossing against his path—and against the fucking stop light, of course—and had to stop suddenly to avoid hitting the man in the red hat, who stepped up his pace 0%, which I of course admired. The cop in the passenger seat yells out his window at the guy to get out of the fucking way. The guy in the red hat just smiled even bigger and kept walking. The very millisecond the man cleared the path of the cop car, it lurched forward inexpertly with its sirens on and lights flashing. It was such a bullshit move on the cops’ part, done only to justify their asshole behavior, and it was so obvious to me a few moments later when the cops turned their lights and sirens off again a few blocks away that they needed to make noise in order to cover up the man in the red hat’s defiance. Their power was nothing against a person who had done nothing wrong but yet chose not to bend to their will. They had guns, but still they had to wait.

I felt, and still feel, grateful to the man in the red hat who smiled at nothing. He gave me a very small shred of hope, whether I want it or not. And BTW, didn’t I see a man smiling at nothing the last time I left Dr. Duchenheimer’s office? What’s that about? The world is too ominous for its own good.

I Am Screwed and I Don’t Really Care

I’ve got a shrink that I go to. I’ve gone through several of them, and mostly I just hate their stinking guts and don’t bother going back, but eventually dear old dad will have a conniption and find me a new one, and off I go for more baffling rationalizations. I think they all want me to break down in tears for them; they all want the revelation to surface from the black muck of my spiraling spirit so they can look in the mirror at night while brushing their whiter than white teeth and say to themselves, “Hey, I really DID something today.” It’s a great time. But this last guy, let’s call him Dr. Douchenheimer, he seems to have duped me into sticking around longer than I wanted to. Oh well. It does me no good, as my life just seems to spin out of control faster and faster. I mean, not even a week ago I had never tried drugs really, now I’m dropping acid at the dinner table. Before too long, I will have my very own rap sheet! How cute. How ADORABLE.

But Dr. Douchenheimer seems to have all the patience in the world for my bullshit hatred—which really just gets me even more pissed at him. With the others, it seemed like they would get as impatient with me as I would with them, and our mutual annoyance-fest made it easy for me to hit the tiles and move on to the next sensitive genius. I wasn’t giving them the results they wanted, and I WILL NOT take a handful of fucking pills everyday because who the fuck knows what that nasty shit does to a young man’s dick and his desire to use it, and I certainly do NOT want to let my guard down for even a second for fear of the creeping zombitis—the rotten and debilitating disease that has taken over the minds of so, so many in my illustrious peer group, causing them to decorate lockers and cheer for no good goddamned reason for sports teams that mean absolutely NOTHING to them OR in the large scheme of “things,” and the raping and pillaging of the village virgins goes on unnoticed under the clogged noses of the fucking swing choir, and the drama club is too busy practicing veneers to see what a joke we’ve all become in the eyes of the elders we’ve sworn to follow. And the marching band. Ha. That music sucks donkey dick when placed next to the celestial thrashing of Mayhem. Would the pills take even that sparse happiness from me? The world will never know.

So from the very beginning, Dr. Douchenheimer was very cool about my no psych-drug policy, which made me immediately mistrustful. He said he was good with me trying to fix myself without outside interference, and I was like…fix myself? Am I broken? And he said, “No, but you’re not completely well, either.” That made me blink, but I guess I’m a sucker for someone who seems to be telling me the truth, so I’ve stuck around. Doc Douche got me started on this stupid journal—although I am positive he never meant an e-journal, ha ha ha—and so the other evening when I was at his office I wanted to tell him that I started it, but first I had to get my very eventful week out of the way.

He was not pleased in the slightest when he heard about Camile’s dad’s windshield—he’s a guarded mother-fucker, though, so it’s hard to say what he really feels about the shit I pull—but he didn’t seem terribly torn up about the acid dinner; he just looked at me like the sly bastard he is and said, “I thought you weren’t into medications?” Touché, dick. After I went through the sordid details of my recent life, we talked about cries for help, and I was like yes professor obvious, I am crying for help. Help! Help! Get me out of my dork-infested school! Get me different parents! Stop the fools who run the show from rubbing my nose in their precious GOD all the time. That, of course, made him bring up the way I “degraded” Camile in church, and I was like, doc, I’m fading, you’re losing your patient…we’re losing this guy! Give him 500 cc’s of ANYTHING, stat! CLEAR. THUMP-THUMP. He backed off. I also like how he backs off. He holds up both hands as if to say, “whatever.” But that’s totally ok. “Whatever’s” cool. Everyone thinks answers are supposed to be so specific, but how can they be? Have you ever heard of dark matter? My friends (can I call you friend?), you can’t GET any LESS specific than THAT, but it seems to be all the rage among the answer-makers these days.

When he brought up Camile is when I told him that I took his advice about the journal. At first he lit up like a gasoline-soaked hobo. I suppressed the urge to feel proud that I made him happy, instead I went ahead and followed a more sensible course: I put my freaking guard UP, bubba. You see, everybody is looking out for numero-fucking uno, make book on it. It’s the third law. (1) Death, (2) taxes, and (3) get what you can. I know that Dr. Douchenheimer is constantly looking for ways to feel good about himself, and like anybody, he’s gonna take the path of least resistance, right? But the path of least resistance isn’t necessarily what’s best for patient #52728 (Pendel). No hard feelings world, but I’m onto you, and I’m not about to start turning my back.

Then I tell him that my little gut spilling is being done on the internet, and his face kinda sags, and he’s like, “What, a BLOG?” And I’m like, sure, that’s what the cool kids call it, I guess, and then he sits way UP in his chair and looks at me VERY seriously and he asks me, “What exactly have you been telling the world, Pendel?” And even before I can say the word “everything” I have that old, familiar sinking feeling. You know the one. It’s the feeling you get after EVERY FUCKING TIME you try to do ANYTHING worth a SQUIRT OF SHIT.

I guess what else is there to say? I’m sure all of you fucking cock sucking sons-of-bitches out there laughing at how I fall on my fucking face every goddamned day of my pitiful useless life knew it all along; laughing at the dumb kid in class with no fucking friends, watching him dig his own grave by moonlight as the hungry wolves sit baying on the next hill, licking their tireless lips, knowing that tonight they will feast on idiot-flesh. To hell with it. Let it happen. Bring all comers. I guess in the back of my mind I MUST have realized that Google applies to me, too. I guess I knew that the cops and Camile and Camile’s two-bit biker parents have all used a freaking search engine. I guess I knew. And I said as much to Doc Douche, I said you know, as stupid as I can be, I think I must have known, and he said, yes of COURSE you did, dumbshit (or maybe he didn’t say dumbshit), and he actually says to me, “I’m happy, really, Pendel, because it keeps me from having to feel torn about keeping a dirty secret about you breaking the law.”

Is this why I like Dr. Douchenheimer? Cause he’s got the balls to NOT treat me with kid gloves? Did I just say I LIKE him? I think I didn’t mean that. I think I mean this is why ACCEPT him in my life. Anyway, he said he can’t fully support OR disapprove of a “web log.” That’s what he calls it. Ha. It wasn’t his intention, but he’s willing to see how it plays out. I said what if it plays out with me rotting away in jail, and he just laughed and said I might be picking up trash on the curb for a summer and working to pay a hefty fine, but not jail.

He thinks golf is a great idea, but of course I didn’t tell him my full plan, and maybe I never will, cause in the end I don’t trust his dumb ass any more than the rest. He also said he thinks I ought to see what Hanson has to say to me on weekends. Fucking Christ, NOOOOOO. I do NOT like Dr. Douchenheimer.

When I got home later, Clare immediately got up and left the room, giving me the smartass little smirk she has been working to perfect over the last year. So this is how it happens, I thought. It felt much like a mob hit. In come my parents from the kitchen. “Sit your butt down, Pendel,” says my dad. I said, okay tough guy, your wish is my command. He glares, but says nothing. My mom actually kicked the leg of the chair I was sitting in, which I will admit, caught me off guard and shut me up for a second. “The goddamn POLICE called again, Pendel.” I had nothing to say. I knew it would happen regardless of what they found, the call from the cops, but my mom NEVER curses, and sure as fucking shit she NEVER BUT NEVER takes the Lord’s Name In Vain, so I know what they’ve got to say, and I know just how red-hot pissed it has made these two pious landlords of mine, and I know that maybe now I should let things play out, let them have their say. And hey, I kinda feel fucking stupid still after my “session” with my “doctor.”

So tomorrow I go in the morning to the station to answer more questions, except this time they suggest I bring both my parents AND A LAWYER. Wow. Who’d a thunk it? Little ole’ ME? With an ATTORNEY? AT LAW?? I guess I really have hit the big time. And can you believe my busy schedule?! Makes a guy feel important to have places to go.

My mom said I’m lucky to have a lawyer for an uncle, otherwise they don’t know how they could ever afford it, and then, besides just EMBARRASSING the family half to death, I would have RUINED them financially as well. I’m not so sure, you know? Seems to me it might be worth the money to not have my mother’s SCUMBAG brother bleat to the rest of the dejected extended family about my every failure. Oh well. I could win the fucking Nobel fucking Peace Prize in Penis Enlargement and they would all still find me as useless as a ragdoll.

BTW, on my way home from the shrink’s, I heard this incessant bell ringing. I looked around to see who the hell was having such a time of it to make that kind of racket, and saw that it was just this old guy riding a bike down the street. He had one of those old-fashioned girly bells on his handlebars, and he just kept flicking away at the fucking thing like it was nothing. I wondered who he was trying to warn out of his way, but there was no one. And then I saw the empty smile on his face, just utterly and completely stress-free, thought-free, memory-free, and I was like, ohhhhhhhhh…he’s a retard. How nice, to think of nothing and love your bell so much.