The Empty Promise of a Brand New Day, Back Story Pt.1

Every morning the sun rises from behind the hills, and, glowing with warmth and life, lies to my face. A new day has begun, but within this day lives the same cynicism, the same egoism, and the same dim remorse as any other day. There are moments in the dawn that clang like trash cans spilled by strays that lurk just out of sight, and in those moments I bolt from my cot, I scratch and pull at my shirt, and I remember how the light in the bathroom was uncovered and harsh, smearing illumination across the stains on the sink and floor; lending unwanted dimension to the dried piss crusting the toilet seat as my head pitched forward and cracked against the side. Memories deep and mean like a quarry, red from rust and wet from rain. I see flashes of the evil twat once known to me as the Eternal Camile with her lips splotched and red, her tootsie roll nipples and velveteen heart, her scatter shot mind blasting me straight to jail. Camile, you rotten tomato, you Benji-fucking scum, you turn-coat whore of a slut, you master of disaster in your mask of angry zits. Oh…when next I see you, then we shall see…make book on it!

And now the bees rise like a cloud from the overturned garbage of the morning, and they descend into my hair and burrow into my ears, stinging and swelling and buzzing. I clench my fists and ask my friend the Wall to hand me some good news so that I might clear my mind of this shit storm, but the Wall gazes past me, unconcerned. My lost freedom itches like a phantom limb. My neck is already stiff with tension. An unseen screw is turned, tightening my skull. My cellmate Jody complains, “You’d better stop grinding your teeth, ass wipe!” I tell him that unless he wants to taste the bottom of my foot via the hard way, he’d better mind his own business, and he, as is his wont, punches his cot. “Damnit! I hate it here! I hate YOU!” I laugh and call him a baby, because that’s what he is: an over-sized, hairy baby, with no social skills. He flops around his cot like an frustrated trout.

And so the morning marches on.

People who feel they know me are probably looking for precious backstory: how did Pendel’s sorry ass land in the clink? The story is long, but I guess I have some time. When it all went down, it seemed so unreal to me, like everything was happening in a brain gone bad, as if, in reality I was lying strapped down to a bed in a mental institution at the top of a black hill, and the doctors were telling my dad that it was useless to talk to me, that I can’t hear him, that the strange things I was saying and doing were part of the brave, new world I had constructed in my mind, that I was not responding to medication, that I was never coming back. With the magic of hindsight, of course, I can now see that everything that took place is all part of the normal, natural order for any person who becomes involved in selling weed.

In my heart—my blackened cinder of a heart—I (justly) blame Benji and Camile for everything. It was their malice that turned my karma shit black. It was their corroborations that saved Benji from sharing my fate. It was they that flinched at the first sign of trouble, and turned Sugar against me with pitiable lies. If they hadn’t…oh, but I get ahead of myself.

******

So here goes nothing:

The nagging rain and dead gray sky notwithstanding, my day really turned to stone the moment I entered the old folks home. Debora Fanning immediately materialized from thin air and stepped—with more grace than a woman of her size deserves—into my path. “Pendel. A word?” I asked her if she promised that it would only be, in fact, one word she planned on sharing with me and her already thin mouth disappeared into the dough of her face. I was all like, hey man, give me a break. I’ve been helping Big Bill wipe ass, no complaints. She held a hand up to quiet me, which I freaking hate like death, but allowed it for now, because I am in control of all things Pendel. “There were men here again. But they weren’t the same men as the last time, Pendel.” She looked at me sideways as if I had something to spill, which I did.

Ok, I said, well, I need more information, Pilsbury.

“They had badges. They were detectives. They were narcotics officers.”

OUCH. But my face is unchanged, I am an ice sculpture of feigned confusion. I betray nothing. Debora, what did they want? Is it about my sister (I apologize to you Clare for having so cavalierly thrown you under the bus, but you know what a shit I am)?

“It is not.” Debora Fanning has a gaze as level as a gyroscope. It is fearless, but I am great and terrible. We are well matched, Fanning and I. “Pendel, I have had a lot of young people serve their community service with me. Do you know what that means?”

It means you’re middle aged.

“Pendel, it means that I’m no fool. It means that you might think you have me duped, but I can assure you that you do not. Narcotic officers don’t just come around asking for people. They ask questions about people. People they think might have reason to be up to no good. They check to see if people have jobs.”

So, I have a job. I love it here. Adult diapers and daisy chains.

“You realize of course that I cannot and will not cover for you. I do not know you. It’s not my place to trust you or rehabilitate you. This is not your job, it is your court ordered sentence, and I told them as much. Get yourself together, Pendel. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t need the trouble, and neither do the other very good people who work here. Not to mention the poor souls who have come here to end their days in peace.”

What could I say? All the braggadocio in the world cannot change the fact that I am, in fact, a hindrance to Debra Fanning and the Silver Fox Players. I don’t admit it to her and never would, but I am a gambler in a game of unquestionable consequences. It’s cliche, but the walls are, in fact, closing in around me. I feel it in my head. I find myself looking for escape routes where ever I go. I check outside windows for sturdy drainpipes or adequate cracks. I check stairways for roof access. I have written out and destroyed more than five different options for home emergency egress. I have a supply of non-perishables stashed in a certain park and I refuse to reveal to any of you untrustworthy harpies the exact location. The other day as I headed out the door, Sugar Bear asked me where I was going, and I told him I was biking down to the Taco Bell on East Main. Immediately I suspected him of everything bad in the world. I then proceeded to pedal my ass as fast as humanly possible to the shop across the street from the Taco Bell—some stupid little shithole with the inexplicable name of Artistic Sandwich and Pizza. I hid behind a car in the parking lot for twenty minutes to see whether or not I had been followed. Make sense? Fuck no. How would I know the difference between a regular customer and the cops? Why would getting a taco on that night be any different from any other? If I was being FOLLOWED, then wouldn’t they have seen me turn into this lot? All these questions mattered not because my mind was fried beyond belief with worry. Oh, and pot. Which also just so happened to make the fucking taco, when I finally purchased and devoured it along with two of its brothers, one of the best tacos I had ever had in my LIFE (for more on my past experiences with tacos, CLICK HERE).

I lamely suggested to Debora Fanning that perhaps these gentlemen with badges (and therefore guns) must have simply been trying to question me about a friend of mine, someone with whom I had most DEFINITELY cut all ties, as a matter of fact, now that I think about it DEBORA, I know EXACTLY about whom they must be curious.

I had my regular smoke with my new old friend Charlie Murphy, and I told him I didn’t know how much longer he and I would be able to hang out. He shook his head and sighed, “Goddamn you, you just couldn’t stay out of trouble.” I agreed that no, I couldn’t.

“When are they coming for you?”

I really have no clue.

“You even know they’re cops?”

I just shook my head and finished a beer, crushing the can on my head with a belch. Charlie shook his head again. I forgot the question entirely a mere two minutes after he asked it.

I’m pretty sure I wiped an ass or two before heading out the door, but seeing as I have blocked as many of these particular traumatic events from my mind as possible, it’s tough to say. I biked home in the dreary rain and had already pushed open the door of my faded abode before a frightening realization brought me to a halt. The door wasn’t locked, and that was a HUGE problem. I was just thinking that someone (i.e. that fucking asshole Benji—you rotten piece of fucking shit I can’t WAIT to tear you a new asshole) was going to hear it from me, because you simply DO NOT EVER leave our door unlocked for OBVIOUS reasons, when the fact that the door jamb was a mess of splintered wood bubbled up to the top level of my mind and set everything inside me on high alert. I wiped the rain dripping from my hair from my eyes and backed one step toward the street. Dim light spilled out onto the front steps, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember if any had been left on when I left earlier in the day. I focused my entire existence upon the crack made by the partially opened door and listened.

“Hey man, don’t be shy, get your ass in here. It’s fucking wet outside.”

The voice, which caused my cock to turn ice-cold and shrivel into nothing, came from inside the house, but the hand that shoved me forward most definitely came from behind. I tripped over the sill and nearly fell flat on my face before the same hand (I assume) steadied me roughly and then immediately began to drag me the rest of the way into the front room of the house. At first I was simply too shocked to do or say anything, I simply let the disembodied hand throw me into one of our dilapidated chairs.

“That’s it. Get comfy.”

The sound of the voice speaking again brought me back, and I looked around wildly and began to stand, but was hit on the back of the head with something not quite hard like a semi-thawed carton of ice cream (I never found out what it actually was) and found my seat again pretty quickly. Cold steel was at my throat and I became very still. It’s funny, really, how certain things can focus a person. Is it genetic? It must be. A young man who has never seen a woman undress, even if he’s never heard the tales, would become very focused the moment it happened in front of him. He doesn’t need anybody to tell him where to look or what’s important. It’s all reflex; nature takes over. In a very disturbing way, the knife pressing just below my adams apple produced much the same effect. I was a statue with five senses, baby.

I gathered quickly that there were two men in the room with me. They had turned on only one lamp, the living room was dim, and I couldn’t see much. It appeared as though none of the other rooms had been entered, or, if they had, the lights had since been extinguished. The men in the room—and you know, all this shit is very foggy now—seemed to both be around average size and…how else to put it?…of average hair. I don’t know. Like I said, it’s all foggy. Fuck you if you don’t like it. There’s lots of blogs out there littered with minutia if you want them. The weird thing though, the detail I won’t forget anytime soon (that and being ‘jump started,’ of course), are the cheap freaking Groucho Marx glasses they both wore on their faces. The ones with the fake nose, right? Oh my god. Creepy as shit and completely effective, because I couldn’t bring myself to center on ANY other facial detail. I was so fucking freaked out I almost peed.

And it was all going to get much worse.

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The Way-Fucked Circle of Life

It’s fucking crazy to think that sending a guy like ME to an old folks’ home is going to do ANYBODY any good at ALL.

My court appearance went off without a hitch. Processed like meat, cleansed of disease, stamped with assurances—I am made anew, and shall never stray from the path of direct righteousness again. They said to me, “Pendel, you have done wrong by us…why did you wander into the dark? Tell us what you saw while you were there.” And I said please give me a chance to explain, oh devisors of the faith, oh commanders of the wallow, oh brandishers of the law and sickle—my time in shadow was wasted…wasted…and now I’ve returned to the light and my sight is restored. Take pity. Have mercy. Show me the same clemency you would reserve for yourself. Are we not brothers? Has your life been a simple traipse from one patch of verdant truth to the next? Or did you struggle? Was there a climb over rock and stone with bleeding palms and cracked fingers and the thinning air shortening your breath as the sand trickled into your eyes? Did you stumble over cracks in the twilight? Was there never a moment of fear and doubt when, roused for a moment from your daydreams, you looked around to find the streets were strange and the windows cracked and boarded? Are you a fucking prodigy? Have you never soiled a finger while wiping your ass? Do you ever even shit AT ALL? Or are you magically immaculate, with every tender bite of veal dissolving like a drop of dew in the morning sunlight; no need for the crude stomach, the vile intestine?

“Are you quite through?” asked the judge, an old, dry fuck by the name of Parrott.

“Would you just shut up already?” pleaded Uncle Ben—whom you all know by now.

But I could not stop throwing myself upon the mercy of the court: Let me tell you a dream I once had, your honor (I begged). I was only a boy at the time—which in reality for me was not so long ago—and the summer was upon us and it was fucking HOT. I mean, you live here, you know how it gets. It’s brutal, your honor. The humidity is a living thing that fills your lungs; a sloth with hot breath sitting upon your shoulder, holding you down while the algae in its coat slowly creep down your neck and chest. I fucking HATE IT and I always have, and I complain viciously until all around me pray for a coma to take me until milder days arrive.

Evening falls, and the asshole sun finally finds it in its boiling heart to sink behind the hills, but still the bloated air presses its sweaty hand over your nose and mouth, suffocating you. Such barometric oppression is twice as distracting to a child as he tries to sleep, and to ME, ever the super fucking SENSITVE one, it is three times so. But my mother and father—too cheap to turn on the freaking battered window unit that could have saved us all from perdition and YEARS of mild spite—resolved the issue as inexpensively as they possibly could by letting us all sleep in the living room that night in front of one crappy, tore up box fan (as opposed to procuring a fan for each one of us, which would have broke the goddamned BANK, no doubt). Kids love this kind of shit, however, and the break from routine was welcome. We giggled and farted our way down the hall that night, our pillows under our arms—Pendel, Clare, and Matty—happy then because we knew no better; happy because to us, shelter was all there was, a roof over your head and a shirt on your back and the smile on the face of your father or your mother—never to see the worried creases in their foreheads when they turned to the window as the world wore away at their will—simple reassurances that sufficed so well at the time, but later would leave a residue of vague regret on your ribs as you think of all the nasty shocks in store.

Tee hee hee.

As hot as it was in the house, the breeze and noise from the fan was an extraordinarily comforting thing, and the very act of waiting for sleep was like a hug; the movement of air over my head seemed exotic, hypnotic. All five of us lay in a row in the living room that night, and I couldn’t have felt safer. Gradually, the murmurs and mirth faded as the shadows grew. Soon, all was dark and quiet, but something tugged at my mind telling me the peacefulness was a façade, and though I knew the loved ones near me were all asleep, a squiggling worm of fear in my gut told me that I was not the only thing awake in the vicinity—so I wasn’t entirely surprised when the door to my parents’ room slowly and silently cracked open…

The malevolent specter of my dream didn’t emerge from the room immediately. It first let the fact of the door sink in for a few seconds. As my guts slowly turned to ice, I watched the crack of blackness upon blackness slowly widen. The ice inside me froze my lips, froze my lungs, froze my limbs, and I could not speak, breath, or move when finally the dark figure—hooded and thin and uniquely evil—lurched slowly and ohhhh so silently towards us—towards ME, really, I KNEW he was coming for me, this evil piece of shit—and I remember feeling as helpless as I ever had in my LIFE, your honor. Because you see, I knew this presence inching its way slowly nearer wanted to kill me, yes, but he also wanted to get me out of the room as quietly as possible, because when I died he wanted me to be alone. Do you understand? He wanted my death to be worse than painful, more calloused than premature, greater than the terror of violence.

He wanted me to be lonely when I died, your honor.

There are many shades of black I discovered as I watched this mysterious cutter. The room I was in was very dark, but the hallway before me leading to the bedrooms was even darker. The crevasse left by the yawning door to my parents’ room was plain black. But the cloaked figure advancing on me like the staggered frames of a movie with missing cells was even BLACKER, and the hole in the hood where the face should be…well, that was a fucking abyss, plain and simple. When you rise uncontrollably (after the unannounced exit of gravity) above the trees and into the sky, straight up through the clouds—and the air is stripped from your lungs, and the atmosphere loses its color as you flail your arms hopelessly—soaring up to outer space, and then there is the blackness of the universe before you coupled with the unimaginable distances between things; but you do not stop, you only keep flying in a direction that can only still be described as upwards (though there is no “up” now), until, to your horror, you find yourself passing into a realm unknown, the mythical NOTHING that we always feared existed but could not prove, could not even bring ourselves to theorize, and yet here it is and its SWALLOWING you, gulping you in, sucking you out of the inkiness of space and hauling you into a blackness that you could have never in a million years supposed existed…the BLACK of NOTHING which you never imagined because who could ever truly imagine nothing? This was the black of the encroaching figure’s face. And now its frigid hand was around my ankle and pulling me, and the night no longer seemed hot, it no longer seemed close, it no longer seemed ANYTHING for I was quickly leaving the world of day and night and morning and evening and ANYTHING; I was being pulled away from safety to die alone. And I finally found my voice and I cried out for my mother to help me because the harbinger had me—the blackness was closing around my eyes as I saw my people all start suddenly from the floor at the sound of my voice and immediately begin to shout after me with their hands reaching out—but in their eyes was hopelessness. They did not gain their feet to chase after me. They knew there was nothing they could do. I was fucking GONE, your honor. I clawed furiously at the carpeting and the walls as I was pulled down the hallway towards the great nothing to die alone, but there was no purchase to stay me. Everything faded.

I awoke in my father’s arms, sobbing, crying out, my little kid PJ’s soaked in sweat. Like a goddamned baby.

“Where are you going with all of this?” judge Parrott demanded.

“Your Honor, my client is simply very sorry about everything that’s happened and the people’s time he’s wasted today,” pleaded Uncle Ben.

I cried out BULLSHIT. The whole point of the fucking story is that I’m INNOCENT, your honor. This fucking rice making fool doesn’t represent me. Not ME. He might THINK he’s representing some little asshole he “knows” as his nephew—some miserable little prick with a penchant for nasty anger and acting out against the cloned pigs feigning superiority—but that person is not ME. I am separate from all of that fucking jazz, your honor. I am not even in this fucking ROOM, your honor. I am a million miles beyond space and dying ALONE your honor. Or weren’t you even listening?

“Oh shut up,” said the judge. “This is nonsense. It doesn’t matter whether you committed a crime or not, Mr. Haight. The fact of the matter is that you ARE a miserable little prick, whether you believe it or not, and I think it would do you some good to spend some time watching the very specter you fear taking others into the blackness.”

I told the judge that I must freaking disagree most fucking strongly, but he sentenced me to community service in the local old folks’ home anyway. Which is fine. No, really. It is. The Eternal Camile’s great grandfather is there, for one—which means there’s a chance to get laid inside an old folks’ home, which would be fucking cool beyond BELIEF. I think Benji has a great Aunt or something locked up inside, too, but I’m not sure.

Three months. I can do that standing on my fucking HEAD, bubba. Make book on it.  It’s kind of exciting, when you think about it. To stare into the eyes of a soul so near death and to ask them if they want to play some cards…if you can’t take something away from that, then you’re definitely beyond help.

I can’t wait to tell them how lucky they are to be so close to having it all over with.

Don’t Come Crawling

Why hello, Camile. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.

But first: last Saturday morning Handsome Hanson made a return appearance. He shocked the shit out of me by saying it looks like I’m going to graduate. He then shocked the shit out of me again by saying it all depended on how well I do in my summer courses. I was shocked for a third time to find out my parents will be PAYING ANDY HANSON to TUTOR me over the summer.

Was I born to suffer?

Looking at Hanson from across the sparse utility of the kitchen table turned my stomach. He sat there like a malignant lump, a smile pasted weakly beneath his sticky cock broom—but more than ever before I dwelled on the circles beneath his eyes. Oh, I know you now, Andy. I know what you go home to at night. Are you thinking about her right now, Andy my man? Are wondering what surprises your scrawny wife has in store for you tonight? I bet she dreads the moment your headlights splash across the back wall of your pretty little home. She sits, tense, a drink already in her hand. The television is on, and the news anchors are trying their best to tell her all about today’s great progress, but she doesn’t hear them. The tears are already in the corners of her eyes as she thinks about the years she’s already wasted and cannot rip back from your greedy arms, and you bury your face in those years, and you breathe in the scent of those years, and the smell is unfamiliar but it’s not supposed to be and you try so hard to remember until unbeknownst to you, your mind makes up lies in the cracks where memory should reside, and it places you in the stories of her heart where you never really lived. She senses it happening, Andy. And she wants you to give those years back. You are a thief and that is why she hates you, that is why she is, more likely than not, already half in the bag while you stare benignly at me in mom’s clean kitchen while the morning sun ignores your face.

You’ll probably be smashed before the sun goes down, Andy Hanson—but don’t worry. We all understand. It’s the only thing that keeps you from knocking her fucking teeth in whenever she kicks you down the stairs.

After finding out my GREAT GOOD FORTUNE at gaining Hanson as my number one big fun summertime friend, I asked him if he would like to celebrate our bright future together with an ice-cold brew, but he just laughed and shook his head. “No thank you, Pendel.” His eyes actually twinkled for a second, which made me uneasy and mistrustful. He continued: “It won’t be as bad as you think. I’ll try to make it painless.” I asked him if he was sure, adding, hey, it’s good for what ails ya (!), and he gave me a funny little look, but only shook his head again. I let it drop. Believe it or not, my disgust at gaining Hanson as a tutor was overshadowed by the possibility of getting my stupid diploma.

And then: later that night, more rocks at my window. I immediately knew who lurked outside. Only one person I know is so retarded as to announce their arrival in this manner. The Eternal Camile. I threw up the window and was like, hey idiot, it’s like nine o’clock. Just knock on the fucking door. She was all, “I don’t want your stupid family knowing I’m here.” It’s what she always says, right? I climbed out of my window and we walked a short distance down the shadowed streets to a nearby playground. On the way I explained to her that most people throw rocks at the window because the person they want to contact lives on the second floor. Our house is one story. She could just knock on the window. She was like, “Ohhhh…”. IDIOT. Truly.

When we got to the playground, she turned to me, and started talking. I didn’t hear the first couple of sentences she said because a nearby stop light had tuned red and cast its light across her face, turning a giant whitehead right beside her nose to pink. I wondered idly what she would do if I reached out and gave it a little squeeze. I really REALLY wanted to try, but in my heart I am a coward.

Slowly I began to listen, and realized she was very angry that I had spilled the beans about her mom’s cleaning business woes a couple of weeks ago. I told her to go fuck herself. She tells the cops she thinks I demolished her old man’s windshield (the fact that I did is beside the point), and she thinks she’s got the right to be fucking pissed at ME? What the hell is this bloated world coming to? She started to cry tears of real anger, which affected me little, and she said that now, because of me, her parents are so pissed with her that they won’t talk to her. They blame her for bringing me—the Great and Terrible Pendel—into their miserable lives. I laughed and told her that they have a point. She did. She punched me in the arm—a little too playfully for someone who’s supposed to be pissed—and said she never asked me to ruin her dad’s car and wreck her mom’s reputation. She never wanted her folks to stop speaking to her. I just had to smile. I told her that she should be thanking me. Why would she want those fucking apes talking to her anyway? “Fuck off,” she said. I said no problem and turned to walk away.

And THAT was when she spins me around and starts nomming all over me with those fucking fish lips of hers! I was so taken aback that at first I did nothing, I was lost in a haze of grape Hubba Bubba (I fucking HATE grape Hubba Bubba), and I was simply trying not to fall over as she hung from my shoulders, her sharp little teeth digging at my neck, my cheeks, my ears, my lips. She was breathing loud, like she had just come up from the blackest depths, the ink of the ocean, and as she tried to climb up my body I realized she was nothing but a goddamned monkey. A monkey with a fish-face and zits. Hey, like I said before, her dad’s an ape, right? It all makes sense in the end.

Coming to my wits, I pushed her off me and asked her if she had lost her goddamned mind. She said she had, which shut my mouth for a second. “I’ve got nothing to do now,” she said. “I miss you.” I told her that, unfortunately for her, I didn’t feel the same way. I tried to explain to her that she was initially just an object for me, a conquest to take before the summer was up, but that was all over now. Amazingly, she said she was cool with that. She just wanted someone to talk to, and that I was the only person who ever really did.

Well, that’s a shame, I said. Because now you’ve lost that, too. Go home and look at the wall.

She cried and slapped me. I said, hey, it’s fine man, whatever you need to do. She slapped me again and I shrugged. She turned to run away, but got tangled in her own big feet and sprawled across the ground like a milkshake. Typical. Typical Camile, typical life. I didn’t help her up. She pulled herself off the ground, and without dusting off or looking back, she walked into the night crying to herself.

Fuck it. Yes, I’ll let her make out with me again, but it’s going to be when I’m done punishing her for being such a little bitch.

Patrice

I hooked up with Patrice a week ago Sunday night, completely by accident. Before I go any further, let me say this: Patrice is a sneak and a liar, and anything you hear from her is complete bullshit. If Patrice tells you that gas makes a car go, question it; check her sources. I feel about Patrice the same way I feel about Access Hollywood: she can be good for a laugh, but she has no ethics and will do anything to get ratings. Ugh. My mom loves that retarded show. She Tivos it and I think she has a glass of wine in the afternoon while she watches. She gets all dolled up in her high-waist jeans and clogs and snorts her disapproval over a bunch of everyday nonsense that may or may not be true, and is none of her goddamned business to begin with. What a waste of a life. Me going to jail tomorrow and earning my GED behind freaking bars is a better use of time. I HATE it.

And what did I go and do? The same damn thing as my mom. Drank some booze and ended up getting my kicks off of some lame sensationalistic bitch.

Sugarbear had an awesome party set up for that Sunday afternoon. His parents rock this mansion (at least, it’s a mansion to me) about a half mile away from my parent’s dump, and it is totally set up to fucking kill bugs dead. Hot tub, pool out back, sunken living room with the whole crazy home theater set-up and a freaking DVD jukebox that holds like two-hundred movies, for the love of Christ. And they have the SECOND living room where old people go and sit when they come over, with nothing but furniture, end tables, and flowers in it, I guess because the seniors don’t like all those shocking loud noises scaring them out of their shit-filled diapers. What a mess. Old people torque me off. What’s it gonna kill you to come and hear the younger set talk? Afraid you might learn something new right before you die? I guess I’d be pissed too, though, finding out about all the cool new things the world had to offer a fucking week before biting it.

The house has a kick-ass make-out pit in the basement, with black lights and a music dock and suede throw pillows EVERYWHERE, and there’s no windows so it is dark ALL THE TIME, even in the middle of day. During party mode, no one is allowed in the basement alone. Sugarbear assigns a pal (personal ass licker) to basically be a bouncer at the basement door, with a kind of gate made of the velvet ropes and poles that Sugarbear and another buddy of his named Johnson (also on the golf team) ripped-off from the local movie theatre. It makes the whole scene totally authentic. I love it. Usually I spend like an hour down there with Camile, but she obviously OPTED OUT of attending Sugar’s party with me, seeing as she read all about me smashing her monkey-dad’s windshield in on this site last week. THAT’S RIGHT. She found it. Needless to say, she and I are not dating at the moment. HA HA. Fuck her and her dumb-ass fish lips. I’ve had just about enough of her and her sweet little sprinkle of pimples. Die, Camile. I know you’re reading this, you strumpet. DIE. I smashed your dad’s window because he is a DICK and I HATE HIM, and I hate YOU, because you are obviously JUST LIKE HIM. You ACT like him, and guess what, you fucking prima donna hose-bag—you LOOK like him, too, you goddamned APEGIRL. You think you are so smart, calling the cops, and telling them about my blog…well, joke’s on YOU, Bitchy McSlutkins, because they ALREADY KNEW ABOUT IT, so HA HA HA. Hey, take this on, Camile: you think I’m so bad for smashing in a windshield, hmmmmm?? How about the fact that your oh-so-demure mommy is gonna be in way over her head in a pot of scalding hot water for not filing taxes on her little house-cleaning business? I heard my straight-laced parental units talking about it like three months ago. She’s fucking BUSTED, and there is NO WAY AROUND IT, and there’s a very good chance she’s gonna do HARD TIME FOR IT. Me, all I’m gonna have to do is some freaking lawn maintenance in the city park, so who’s worse? Her, or me? Or hey, maybe even YOU? The product of an ape and a thief, and the ex-girlfriend of a loser vandal, that’s what you are. And a fucking SNITCH.

CAMILE GLADSTONE IS A DIRTY RAT SNITCH.

Spread the word.

What was I talking about? Ah yes. The liar Patrice. What a prize. What was I thinking? So, she finds me at Sugarbear’s party, and she starts talking to me about how Camile is such a loser for snitching me out, that she read all my shit, and she thinks it’s sooo sexy that I have a blog (WHAT?!? Please). It’s all bullshit, and Patrice has just about the biggest feet I’ve ever seen on a girl, and her hair is like such an afro that I swear she’s got birds in it, but by this time I was on my third or fourth beer, so when she turned to get a cold one and rubbed her ass on my johnson again, it was pretty much over. She came back and said she wanted to see the basement but had no one to go down with, and I was like, you do NOW.

Benji was watching the rope at the time, and when he saw me going down with Patrice his fucking eyes fell out of his head. I mean, it’s no surprise that Patrice the Terrible would eat up a friend’s ex for breakfast—I mean hell, her whole reputation is built off of what she did to Tammy Reddick two years ago—but I think Benji was shocked because we spend so much time ragging on Patrice in the cafeteria lobby about her hair and her cross-eyes (when she takes off her glasses her eyes cross, so weird). Whatever. I’m what you might call an ASS MAN, and in my drunken state, Patrice had it in spades.

So we go downstairs, and she pulls me around by my belt (for all her failings she ain’t shy, bubba) to an empty spot as we stepped carefully over all the writhing bodies in the dim black light. It’s funny, now that I think about it. I wasn’t at all skeeved by being around a bunch of people getting to third base together in the same dark room at the time, but now I suddenly feel like I need to take antibiotics. Well, we find a spot, and she immediately is all over me and kissing me like a fucking back-HO, like this is a freaking construction project for her, like she is excavating something out of my face. And her breath is slimy and gross, all stale and smoky cause she smokes cigarettes (which I happen to not give a flying fuck about but her breath was SO bad), and suddenly I’m like, what the hell am I DOING? And she’s all like whispering, “I’m going to ROCK you, slugger.” And I’m thinking SLUGGER? Who the fuck says SLUGGER? But I don’t know how to get out of the situation, it’s like she has me where she wants me, and I can’t get free…she’s too confident, too strident, and I KNOW she has a HUGE fucking mouth and god knows what she’s gonna tell people if I jet on her.

It was at that moment that my ass started vibrating. I jumped up about ten feet in the air, totally startled, landing on some dude’s ankle, and he was like, “What the fuck?” And I was like, “My ass, my ass, something’s in my ass!” And everyone stops what their doing, pulling tongues out of respective orifices, and is just gaping at me as I dance around the basement. I THINK I danced around the basement, anyway. That’s how I recall it. So embarrassing. So, you know, of course I eventually remembered I had my cell phone in my back pocket, fucking DUH, and I pull it out and it’s a text from Sugarbear saying dude what the FUCK are you DOING down there with that BIRD’S NEST?

That broke the spell. Yes, I thought, what the fuck AM I doing with her? By this time she’s walked over to me, looking all around to see who’s looking at us, and she’s like, “Hey, what the hell, Pendel? Are you gonna come back and get busy?” And I’m just horrified with myself, because her glasses are off, and it doesn’t even look like she’s looking at me, she’s looking at her own freaking NOSE for CHRIST’S SAKE, and I’m just like, hey, sorry, I can’t…I gotta go…

I don’t even know if she said anything to me after that. I ran upstairs and was through the door in an instant, squinting in the light, and like, Sugarbear and Benji are practically on the floor laughing at me.

So what. It happens to the best of us, right? Well, you must remember that Patrice is a lying swamp monster skank. I go to school on Monday to find out she told everybody I spewed everywhere as soon as she touched me, and squealed like a 13 year old, and that’s why I ran out on her. HATE HER AND WANT HER DEAD.

On top of this, now with my guilty vandal status and community horseshit, my parents have RAMMED weekends with Mr. Hanson down my throat. We start Saturday, but I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to kill myself before that. BUT! I start golf tomorrow, and maybe within a couple of days, I’ll get to try acid again, so I guess I will go on living just to see how THAT plays out.

I am only 17, yet life already seems so endless.

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.