Being that the sole arbiter of all things worth knowing and/or forgetting has, unfortunately, weighed in again, I’m posting the following.
Here we go.
While I truly love my Mom to this very day and dearly miss her, looking back on things, I wonder why she sought ought affirmation in the form of countless husbands. My father unceremoniously screwed her over in the biggest of ways. Dick! A thorough screwing she neither earned or deserved, God rest her soul. My first step-father did as much, as if by some sort of demented rote. Perhaps she exuded vulnerability with every breathe she took. You got me.
And the third one, that puke? Well, at least he helped me hone my fighting skills to the point where no future stand-in, ad-hoc father would even think of fu>king with me. The hapless dipsh*t, the punching bag that he was.
Anyway, here’s a couple of videos that, for the slightest of reasons, resonated with me right from the very get-go.
Momma, Momma please…no more husbands…I don’t know who my Daddy is.
Supplant the entitled rich thing with the embittered poverty thing. No kid wants to grow up eating less than everyone else and wondering why exactly half of his parents could really care less about him.
And then we have the song--“Institutionalized“--and the accompanying video…that violently uprooted me from where I was at the time and what I was doing and deposited me right back into my panged teenaged existence.
Mark! Mark! You’re on drugs!!!
Mom!…just give me a Pepsi!! All I wanted was a Pepsi!!!
My best interest???
I went to your churches??? I went to your schools???
Obviously, I‘m crazy!!!
Me? A homosexual? Nah, don’t get your hopes up, you deranged non-practicing doctor of all things demented and absurd and really not worth remembering.
I took a beating while trying to grow up. I have the sizable physical and emotional scars to prove it. Despite that troubled upbringing, after a while, I returned that beating to people that probably didn’t deserve it in most cases. And for that, while I feel bad on some rarest of rare occasions, I make no apologies for any of that. And I never will. You mess with the bull--the bull that you and your great society created--and you get the horns. You’d swear I was black after reading that.
While those lasting scars may have affected me, they didn’t make me into what I would, for better or worse, eventually become. They shaped me. They helped to mold me. They are what they are. They were what they were. And, believe it or not, I’m all good to go.
So, in conclusion, please keep your long-depressed homosexual fantasies to yourself, okay? Seriously, on comes your word processor and out comes the homosexual tendencies borne of intellectual inadequacy. It’s really getting old. I now know that you have the hots for my recently departed bother, but necromancy is unbecoming no matter how you may endeavor to characterize it.
I feel bad for you. I really do. But, then again, so do the rest of the unsuspecting folks that have been unfortunate enough to have met you. But have no fear. Despite how easy it might be with both arms tied behind my back, I promise not to kick your ass. You’re old, you’re frustrated, you’re demented and you’re flailing away. And from where I see it, you’re a chip off the old demented block.
Now…fu>k off...freak!!! Go back to Burger King and rule the retarded roost, or whatever it is that you do when the underaged girls are not looking.