Scars Remain

A coworker of mine recently had their first kid and suggested that people would reproduce less if they only knew how hard it was to be a parent, which I think we can all agree is bullshit.

We all know how hard it is to be a parent, because that’s the only thing parents ever talk about. In fact, were you to be honest with yourself, your earliest childhood memory is one or both of your parents telling you how shitty it is to be your parent(s). You can go ahead and repress that memory all you want, but the scars are still there – on the inside – where it counts.

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Fuck Carpets

I’m trying to be more masculine, these days. So, I’ve been hitting the gym, wearing dog tags, politely asking women if they would like to be catcalled and proceeding to so, but only if they’re in the mood and have given me explicit consent – I think that’s still butch. But most importantly, I don’t just watch sports anymore. Now, I make sure to wear my favorite team’s jersey and throw a football – to no one in particular, because I do most things alone, and it doesn’t really matter what I’m watching.

Men’s figure skating? Fuck yes, I’ll throw a football to that! Punch my best friend in the arm like, “Check that triple axle, nigga! Shiiit!” Synchronized diving? I’ll pound my chest and a Heineken; throw the bottle right on the floor too, cause fuck carpets, bro.

And here’s a real bro tip for you: I recently learned you can open two bottles at once, if you align the caps just right and pull in opposite directions, like two bros completing a slap-shake while declaring “no homo.” So, the next time you’re at a party with your best bro, grab a Bud for you and your bud. Align those caps, and look him right in the eye, and notice how the light shimmers off his iris, like a fine amber ale, and allow yourself to be drawn in by the obsidian abyss of his pupils, like two black holes about to collide with your own, sending cosmic waves deep into the very fabric of space and time. Let it take you back to the times you spent out on the field – your hands cupped between his thick, veiny thighs like two great tree trunks carved by the very hands of God. Or back in the locker room, snapping his tight, firm, athletic buttocks with a towel, after a well-deserved shower.

And as your eyes make their way down to his parched lips, pop those bottles open, and throw both them bitches on the floor, cause fuck carpets, bro. No homo!

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That’s Emo

I feel there’s still some confusion about what is emo. You see, I was emo back when it was an insult. Back in my day, it took real dedication and tears.

Emo isn’t cute, little emo kids with their cute, little emo girlfriends, or boyfriends, or whatever misappropriating my sorrow. No. Emo is attending a concert in some random skinhead’s basement to see a band called The Blood Clots open for Failed Circumcision, but spending the entire night crying in a corner, because the hot bassist whose gender you never quite determined kissed you in a mutual friend’s kitchen once and never spoke to you again. That’s emo. Emo is driving around town with a bunch of crust punks in a re-purposed hearse, getting sick of hardcore, because you’re the quirky kid who plays cello in the high school orchestra, so you pop in your favorite CD with discernible lyrics and song structure, and your best friend punches you in the arm, calls you a fag, and tells you to stop being so goddamn emo. That’s emo.

And you don’t just throw on some black cosmetics and declare yourself emo. Oh no! You have to grow up a queer, Black kid in the Midwest, and get your ass beat three days out of every week ’til age 12. That’s some real emo shit.

It’s like any other street gang, really. You have to get jumped in for it to count.

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After Thirty

Aging past thirty comes with some surprising changes. For example, after the age of 33, you can no longer digest food without copious amounts of coffee or prune juice. After your mid-thirties, unless you force yourself to poop, everything you eat retains its original shape and forms a new inexplicable bulge.

One of the bigger surprises is liking status updates on social media profiles for your friends’ cats, which I figured was a one off sort of thing, but then it kept happening. So, much like codependent relationship after the age of thirty, I’ve come to accept it as a pattern. Speaking of which, dating changes into something you no longer do, because it cuts into the time allotted for updating your cat’s social media accounts.

But perhaps my greatest disappointment is the fact that I can no longer listen to melancholy music, because I can’t help but think, “Just go ahead and fuck his best friend already, like a goddamn adult!” Which is also why I never befriend any of my friends’ partners, because I never want to be placed in the position where I have to fuck either of them after their next argument.

Your twenties are also the last time you should be allowed to buy a gun, because if I buy a gun at my age, I’m either going to shoot my coworkers or myself. More realistically, I’m gonna hang out at a bar until 2am and take home the most rundown hippy with partially dreaded, rat blonde hair that looks like it’s been freshly washed in an oil spill, and they’re going to shoot me in the face while I sleep.

And you may be thinking, “Why wouldn’t your gun be in a locked safe?” Answer being, that would be inefficient when having gun sex. So now, your question may be, “What the hell is ‘gun sex?'” To which I reply, “If you’ve never drunkenly inserted a loaded handgun inside a stranger at their volition, you’re not in your thirties yet, and you just can’t understand, youngin.”

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