I Know Your Secret Heart

We haven’t talked about my man Hanson for some time, right? The mustached inevitability of this fool in my life has seemed of late to be bottomless, and at times I forget to even be annoyed with him. But there he is, gazing benignly at me on a lazy Saturday with unsteady eyes rimmed with red, asking me if I’ve given any more thought to this or that. Well, you know, I have, actually.

Check it:

Three nights ago, Happy Hanson stumbled down his lack-luster front steps just after 11 PM and lurched angrily into his car. He backed unprofessionally out of his driveway and squealed up the street. The little fucker was painfully drunk. He reached the corner and blew through the stop sign, hanging a hard left and swerving to avoid objects only visible to pathetic, drunk assholes with disgusting cock brooms under their lips and hypocrisy in their beaten souls.

I know this because I was following him, you see.

I’ve been making it a habit to ride my bike up to his house after dark a couple of times a week, just to see if I can witness a drop of madness before bed. Most of the time it’s nothing; he might come out to the small porch and drink several beers while reading magazines about people and places he’d rather be, or I might catch the occasional conversation between poor Andy and his quickly aging, alcoholic, fuck-nuts crazy, depressed bitch of a wife as it wafts out on the night breeze to caress my troubled ears with its bitter qualities. Then there are nights like tonight, rare gems with the raw power to blackmail, when Hanson’s decision-making skills—stretched to the limit by the tremendous gravitational forces of life—completely fail him and he breaks all the precious laws he claims to hold so dear.

I jumped up from my shadowed perch on the large rock across the street, pulled my bike from the bushes, and pedaled after my sad Andy. He didn’t drive quickly, which made it easy, but he blew through just about every fucking stop sign along North Fountain Blvd, which made it a tad treacherous. But you know me; I got no problems with adventure. As far as my main man Hanson, though, he’s a lucky motherfucker, cause only a couple of blocks over on Limestone the cops prowl like pumas, just waiting to sink their glistening fangs into the skull of their drunken prey, hold tightly until the twitches subside, and then drag the carcass off to their lair at the station house where the victim is tenderized and drained in stark florescent privacy. It is poetry. It is survival of the fittest. Hanson is NOT the fittest. Hanson is the least of us all, and if the predator cats of Limestone had the chance, they would devour his sad sack of useless flesh in a single gulp—pageboy cut, mustached lip, clammy skin—all of him.

If I seem fixated on the man’s mustache, it is only because I do not understand it.

I followed this joker for practically four miles—at one time pulling up nearly even with his car in order to peek inside the driver’s window. Hanson was talking very animatedly into his cell phone. He was wiping his puffy eyes, again spilling cheap tears of remorse. At the time I assumed because of some tawdry remark made by his shot-slamming jezebel, but I found out soon enough that while that may have played a part, the main reason for spilling his salt was part of a deeper transgression. Or maybe I should say a LARGER one.

At the end of the trip was Parrin Woods Park, a heavily wooded and private area. It’s not often used because of 1) the lack of any playground equipment for the kiddies and 2) so few places to sit for anybody else. On any given night, the spot is reserved for darkly hooded youths dealing meth and coke to the disastrous party set of the town—pathetic children with no handle on their self-images (and who am I to talk, yes, yes, I know…now please shut the fuck up, perfect people), and the middle-aged factory set: drying out and splitting slowly from being left out in the elements with no protection, they stay up for days at a time beating their spouses and girlfriends mercilessly, taking apart their cheap K-Mart boom boxes and watching the same VH1 countdown shows over and over with itchy scalps and bloody half-moon scars in their palms.

Hanson wrenched his worn, green Neon over to the side of the road—ostensibly to park the fucking thing, but he really just veered over to the curb and turned it off, the ass of the automobile sticking waaaaay out into traffic. Did I mention that the guy was fucking plastered? For myself, I bolted my bike very neatly to a fencepost about 20 yards down and followed Andy from a discreet distance across the street and through the foliage. Into the canopy we traveled, and my nerves immediately began to sing chilled arias as the night warned of danger from broke junkies looking for a way.

A breeze was on my face, but I didn’t pay it much mind as I kept eyes trained on the hunched back of Hanson, who glanced about himself nervously. Seems the freakiness of seclusion had quite a sobering effect on the man. Oddly enough, he never looked back to see the one person in the park who was actually following him.

Parrin is not a large park, and soon we were in the middle of it—alone as far as I could tell—and I dipped back behind a largish V of oaks just as Hanson stopped and spun 90 degrees, squatting. He pulled a can of cheap beer from his hip pocket and cracked it open. In the blue silence of midnight it sounded like one of the trees falling down upon us. He must have felt the same way, for he ducked his head quickly and looked around as if a bat had just landed in his hair. After taking a swig, he sat against a tree and seemed to doze. I was like, are you fucking kidding me? The guy comes all this way and risks a sound mugging—or worse, arrest—just so he can catch some freaking “ME” time? No fucking way. I was getting steadily more pissed off and was nearly at the point of going out and giving the shit-heeled loser a swift fucking kick when approaching footsteps yanked me back down to my spot.

To my ultimate surprise, a decidedly plump and juicy sausage emerged from the darkness, knelt over Hanson, and began to eat his face. The sausage ran its fingers through his bowl cut—possibly looking to pull the skin down his forehead and suck out the soft eyes—and I felt my body leave itself with shock, but I pinched my own nipple and brought myself back around pretty quickly. Of course by now I realized that this thing was not a giant killer sausage at all, but a dumpy woman packed tightly into a drab and clingy summer dress. She was not eating Hanson’s head, either, but kissing him deeply on his weak mouth. I was completely floored by the scene. I tried to get a good look at this fat woodland fairy, but in fact the mystery cherub never even came up for air. She just kept nomming all over Hanson’s sweaty mug in the dim moonlight, filtered and downright fucking spooky through the overhead leaves. I could, however, see this: she was fat. I could also see that what little light there was bounced off of round, fleshy cheeks so plump and yummy that they squeezed her eyes almost shut, and in the night those eyes seemed like black demon slits. I was freaking scared of her, truth be told. I mean, who but a night fiend with an evil agenda of total control would kiss a slug like Andy Hanson? Even if she WAS as fat as a bursting German wiener?

They never spoke a word to each other—which only deepened the strange sense of surrealism in my surroundings—until Hanson actually started pushing the demon cow onto her back, roughly drawing her jersey dress up over her luminous and voluminous thighs—an action to which the ample imp breathed, “Oh, you ARE a little scamp, aren’t you?” Hanson merely giggled manically as she helped him unbuckled his chinos, and I was grossly embarrassed for both of them as they enacted the clumsy ballet of pulling down Hanson’s drawers. I was then mortified to find he wore tighty-whiteys, like some kind of overgrown, paunchy ten year-old, and nearly fucking PUKED when I saw his hairy, white ass, and though I found myself unable to look completely away, I had to turn my head and squint so that I might at least blur the unbelievably hellacious porno playing out in front of me, allowing my stomach to slightly calm itself.

Now is when it gets bad, people. If you have kids, now is the time to tell them to leave the fucking room. Hanson, ever the consummate pro, wrestled his miserable hips between the chunk’s thighs and buried himself up to the hilt. No condom. Did you hear me? NO CONDOM, I SAID. First the man is a murderous DUI son of a bitch, swerving his half-ton missile blindly down the streets where INNOCENT CHILDREN PLAY, and now he was planting his root into the messy garden of some fat devil pig of the night with no glove on. How in the hell can I look this schmuck in the fucking face from now on out? He’ll pontificate his freaking ass off to me, telling me how to live MY life, and just LOOK at the sloppy mess which is him. Oh my Christ. The world. Witness the hideous trial of our lives and tell me I’M the crazy one. All of you out there telling me I’M the one who’s got to screw MY head on straight, how I’VE got to get MYSELF together: listen to this idiot, you say; do what that fool says, you say; on and on you all go, speaking in tongues of lunacy while Hanson fouls a chubby, faceless tart in the woods at the witching hour. BAH. I am a firm believer in the policy of stoning.

So the whole godless act took about 45 seconds. Hanson grunted like a senseless brute and then rolled off his panting lover, licking the sweat from his mustache. She sat up and stretched herself, the messy essence of Andy glistening sickly on her gummy tummy rolls, and she turns her head lazily and says (with what I’m sure would have been half-lidded eyes if her cheeks had not been so fucking FAT), “You sure scratched my itch, Andy Hanson.” Seesh.

Hanson looked at her with absolutely freaking CRAZY-ass eyes, and he says to her—now mind you, these are the FIRST motherfucking words I have heard him say to this woman since she appeared—he says to her, “Next time I want to get you in your butt.”

I barked shocked laughter. I simply couldn’t help it. I’m not a goddamned SUPER HUMAN, after all. And of course, Hanson and his woman erupted into a fit of “Who’s there” and “Show yourself,” but obviously they were shouting at the dark back of a guy already halfway back to his bike.

I went home and took a long shower.

I have Always Been a Turd

I don’t know how I do it, but it seems that I summon nasty emotions in even the most balanced of people. Soon I will be Public Enemy Number One, and it will feel so satisfying to finally be good at something.

I rode with my mom’s brother, who happens to be an ATTORNEY AT LAW, down to the station house on North Fountain on Saturday morning, and it was a completely surreal experience to be briefed by your own uncle on what to say to the officials under the harsh lights of interrogation. I was stoked. It seems crazy, yes, but I felt like life was starting. Wheels were in motion that I had spun without anybody else having told me to spin them, and it was causing a freaking whirlpool. My uncle, let’s call him Uncle Ben (because that’s his name, and yes, we have all cracked countless rice jokes over the years, and yes, he hates it, because yes, he’s an overly serious son-of-a-bitch with no sense of humor), seemed to notice the new light in my eye, and he gave me a look that was hard like artic ice and paused his briefing to ask me if I was having a good time. I said, hey, honestly, I gotta say, I love to have new experiences and I am kinda looking forward to seeing what this whole thing is gonna be about today. He pulled the car over so fast I had to throw my hands up on the dash to keep my teeth from getting bashed in. I was like, nice driving, rice-man. And I swear to god, the guy GROWLED at me. Like, spittle on the freaking cage glass growling, and his TEETH were showing, and he spoke through gritted molars with a hatred only barely contained, and he JABBED at me with a shockingly hard index finger right on my breastbone, and I was completely taken aback like miles and said, dude, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?

He had the look of a crazy person, his little wisps of white hair on the sides of his head kind of sticking up crazily from the wind the car windows channeled through his stuffy, old-man car interior (Uncle Ben is like ten years older than my mom at least), and he was like, “Listen to me Pendel, you little shit bag, I always thought you were a severely challenged turd the whole time you were growing up, and me and everybody else in the family is sick to death of you hurting my sister with your bullshit act.”

Wow. Seriously uncool. I had no clue what to say to that, so I just tsked him and glared and said, hey, that’s not nice. I felt completely lame and weak, but my head was so empty. I mean, he ALWAYS thought? Like, since I was a kid? Well, that’s REAL fucking nice. It’s this kind of rank horseshit that made me constantly feel like a fuck-up and a reject even before I was old enough to know that a person could be those things. My own so-fucking-called flesh and blood never even liked me, and then they all wonder how I could turn out to be such a diabolical mastermind of misdirected stomach acid. Well, they all shall pay in due time. Make book on it.

We drove on in silence from that point, except for the exceptionally GAY music that was straining itself through the lame factory speakers in Uncle Ben’s barnacle-encrusted Oldsmobile. Taylor Dane. Fucking make me gag. Easy listening. BAH! Why do they call it that?! It isn’t easy to listen to at all. It sucks donkey cock from here to the river.

By the time we got to the police station I was just freaking fuming and wanting blood but who can you get blood from when everyone around you is drained of all life? The police station was insanely florescent and buzzing, sad and depressing, and all cinderblock, white paint, plastic chairs and no magazines; why would it have to be that way? Why would I expect it to be anything else? Anyway, Uncle Rice walked up to the counter where a cop who seemed bored to the point of death was sitting and flipping through some random sheets of paper. I bet you a night with Camile that he had no idea what was on any of those sheets of paper. And he had a mustache. I fucking hated his very guts just looking at him. I knew by checking out his piggy rat eyes that he had judged so many people, and the very fact that a person could walk through those station doors escorted by fellow cops would get him thinking mean and prissy thoughts about them, maybe even wishing them dead, just as I am wishing HIM dead. What a vicious circle of wishes.

Me and my uncle were shuffled into a room with four or five chairs and a table with cigarette burns in it, which is exactly what I expected, but was very brightly lit, which is NOT what I expected at all. The temperature was okay, too, and that was strange, because I thought the whole idea was to get me all uncomfortable and disoriented until I spilled my pathetic guts. The floor had carpeting, a really short nap and institutional kind of feel on my feet, and there were of freaking course stains on it, and cigarette burns there, too, and the whole room smelled like a place I didn’t want to be. And suddenly, looking at this dumb room that smelled like coffee breath and smoke, that had almost no color to it, that was so bright that every flaw in the walls stood out like chicken pox scars, I felt so low about everything, I wondered how I had gotten here, and was I always destined to be a loser? Was this uncle of mine right? Did everybody hate me since the day I was born and feel my bad vibe pouring out of my blind baby eyes from day one?

Uncle Ben told me to sit, and I sat (hating myself for sitting on his command but what the hell else was I supposed to do?), and he told me to shut up and listen to him, and I shut up, and I listened to him as well as I could through the constant din of my own bile rising. Uncle Ben grimaced at me, and he rubbed his head in a way that everyone on my mom’s side of the family does when they are presented with an unpleasant task, like he was angry with his own head, and said to me, “Look, when Moody gets in here, don’t talk. I will talk. That’s important. Please don’t think that you’re going to make me look stupid and get even with me by saying something asinine to the police. You’re only going to hurt yourself, Pendel. Okay?”

I shrugged. I didn’t care. I was suddenly drained and felt so moronic and useless and the future was/is black and dim. I felt then, and I feel now, that I am a sham. Even in my increasingly desperate attempt at being a degenerate, I am only a poser. I have no real direction, even in my cynicism, and the worst kind of punk is the spiritless punk. I am the coasting loser. If you don’t get out of my way, I will roll right into you, but probably only like bruise your shin a little.

And so Chief Stephen Moody walks in the door, looking like a drinker but only a moderate one, and he talks by looking directly at me but gets answered by my Uncle as I sit with arms folded, pouting at the dirty table top. And you know the questions asked, where were you on the night of such and such (Camile’s house), what were you doing, (watching TV together, ha ha), when did you leave (not sure). I wanted to get up and shout, I wanted to keep spinning those wheels and keep them moving so that at least my life would have SOME purpose, even if the purpose was to be a pain in the hearts of others, I wanted to shout to Moody that I knew his son Lance, I had gym class with him, and he always got boners in the locker room and that he tried to hide them in his towel but we all saw them, and one time the jocks lit into him so bad about it that he was left alone in the corner crying by a pile of dirty, sweaty basketball uniforms, and nobody helped him, nobody asked if he was going to be okay, and I wonder Chief Moody, did your son tell you about what happened that night when he got home? I bet he didn’t. I wanted to tell Moody about it but I just couldn’t, because in the eyes of my family I had been a loser all along.

I could tell Moody hated me anyway, I know he knows I did it. He brought up the witnesses, and that was the one time I blurted anything out, I just stuck my finger in Moody’s red face and I said, “They’re a bunch of old, blind fucks! They got nothing better to do than look outside every time they hear a door slam! They didn’t see me. Whoever it was they saw it wasn’t me.”

Uncle Rice was embarrassed and told me to sit the hell down. Moody was highly amused. He stood up and told us that all this was just getting a formal statement from me, that they would talk to me more later. We stood to go, and I couldn’t believe that no one had brought up my stupid blog, but then out of nowhere Moody zooms right up into my face and says to me, with this CRAZY gleam in his eye that just screamed “I am going to smile when you die,” he says to me, “I know you gotta make your play, Mr. Haight. But you’re guilty and you know I know it. You’re too stupid to be good at this kind of thing. We have your confession already, and I know you know THAT, too. You wanna make it easy now or keep fighting us?”

Uncle Ben stood in between us and said that he thought it was time for us to leave. He told me again to not say anything. I didn’t. My cage was rattled. I felt like a 5 year old. I wanted to piss myself and cry. I am shit.

My uncle grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the station and threw me in his car. “What was he talking about in there?” I said I had no clue. “Pendel, I can’t help you if I don’t know.” I told him he was full of shit and had no intentions of helping me. No one did. I folded my arms and looked out the window the rest of the way home.

I wonder what community service will be like? What will I have to do? I hope it isn’t old people. Dear Jesus not old people.

So that’s about it. I know I rushed it, but things always seem to take so long to type out. Nothing really happened anyway, just my fate getting drawn out until I feel like it’s not even there anymore.

Oh yeah, on Sunday I made out with Patrice and her tongue was very slimy from cigarettes. It was gross, and I wished I hadn’t done it, because now she won’t leave me alone, but more on that later.

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.

Trouble Now

OMG. Such BULLSHIT. The cops didn’t CALL my freaking parents, they CAME HERE. To my HOUSE. I can’t write it all now, because my dad is coming in here in about 15 minutes to talk to me. I guess if you stumble across this website today and you are completely confused, just read up on the last couple of posts to find out about how EVERYTHING SUCKS.

So this morning, I am choking down a bowl of Crunch Berries (it’s the only cereal I can tolerate lately, I don’t know why), and I’m thinking about the meeting my mom has set up with the EVIL MR. HANSON, scum of the earth, that I have to sit through later today so the four of us (me, mom, my dad, and The Scum) can talk about the “Allegation” I have made against Hanson and his punk ass move to lower my science grade because I refuse join his retarded swim team (shaved freaks, gross). Read about it here. Ugh. Why do people have to RUIN what I like by making it into a thing? A CHORE? I love swimming, so what, now we have to turn it into a goddamned competition?! Fucking people. I hate it all. What a stupid, retarded, dumb-ass, hateful, pissy, shitty, crappy world. I refuse to take part in it.

Sorry about the side track. I’m eating Crunch Berries. Doorbell rings. Everyone’s wandering around for like ten seconds with the obligatory, “who can it be at this hour?” nonsense. But my gut just dropped into my Ponies, cause I know what it’s about. I think, though, that it must be Camile’s lunatic father coming to accuse me, and THAT I can handle. I’d just look the guy right in his gorilla eyes and tell him he’s off his rocker. A liar. Stop coming here and causing trouble! And so forth. I brace for it, pushing my bowl aside, but instead of hearing angry ape cries from the doorway, I hear this low, mumbly voice I don’t recognize, and then my dad saying, “Officer, that sounds like hogwash.” And then, of course, “PENDEL!”

Officer?!? Oh no no no.

I pulled it together and I sauntered out, as cool as I can, cause I gotta play it like I KNOW NOTHING. First impressions are everything, right? The cops are already looking at me like I’m guilty (which is all so funny because I am, but FUCK IT), and my parents are watching me with complete panic, like this is it, the moment they’ve been dreading for like the last year or so, since I really started being a local downer, and we all sit around the living room, and the cops are like, “Son, do you know why we’re here?” and I play it ICE COLD. I must say, even I was impressed with me, and I am not easily impressed. I say, hell yes, I know why their here, and I told that lousy turncoat Camile yesterday when she came over to make BASELESS accusations that it wasn’t me, and her screwed-up simian father can kiss off forever, and how he knows I’m not the smartest kid on the block so he thinks he can pick on me, and how he and his low-end wife don’t like me playing with their precious little daughter, so here they see a chance to get me out of the picture for good. Man, I was on fire. I was BELIEVING it.

I had a hard moment when the cops told me they have several eye witnesses claiming they all saw a kid that matched my description, but suddenly INSPIRATION flooded my head and I said, yeah, and what time of night was that?

It was strange, though. The cops got really neutral about it all. The gleam in their eyes, the thing that made them seem like they were laughing at me, it went away, and they just closed up their little notebooks and said “We’ll be in touch.” And out they went, leaving me with my parents, who didn’t know what to think.

I think my mom is just sad. She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s trying hard to hate Camile’s parents for thinking so poorly of me. But I know she knows better. I am the bad seed. Matty is the pride of the past. Clare is the new hope for tomorrow. Pendel is the sad failure of today.

And dad, I know he’s not ready to buy anything yet. He’s not so sympathetic to my plight. He played baseball in high school, he debated, he had a job at night, he helped my widow grandma; he was a stand-up kid. I am a metal-loving loser.

He’s coming now. Gotta go.