(no subject)
It wasn’t like I went to see him ‘cause I missed him or something. It’s kinda hard to miss your old man when you don’t even know who the fuck he is half the time. You never know if the bastard will smile and remember your name, scream and beat the shit out of you, or start talking out his ass about the fuckin’ CIA or whoever’s watching him this week.
Not that anyone is watching that crazy old bastard.
My father is living proof of how bad the army can fuck a guy up, man. That guy came back from the war all kinds of fucked up. I’m not even sure how he managed to have me… But whatever, it was his birthday, and he’s my dad. So I grabbed Steve-o and we just fucking went down to that tin shack he calls a house. …And the son of a bitch tried to shoot us.
He looked me right in the eye, and he had no idea who I was.
Not that I care. Not that It matters. I don’t care if that old fool remembers me. I don’t need him. I have family. I have Steve-o and I have Trish. Trish, who is like a goddess, who I worship. She’s like- she’s like an adult, you know? She has her store and she knows all this stuff. She’s like a poet. She says all these things, and I, like, know I’ll never be on her level, but I’m thankful that she just lets me be near her.
I love her. Call me a fucking poseur if you want, man, but- I fucking love her.
Still, I hurt, I dunno why, but I fucking hurt. I keep thinking about my dad and it’s fucking killing me. Like, if I think any more, my head might explode.
I just want to go to the god-damn bathroom, but there’s John and one of those other mods in my way, and he’s got some chick hanging off his arm who’s telling me she’s got some vitamins I should take. Fucking pills man. It’s always fucking pills. I don’t care anymore though, and I take a fistful without even looking, washing it down with the rest of my beer.
I don’t really know what happened after that. I just know my head still hurts and Steve-o is driving me home. I’m talking about Trish, and I know he’s not even listening. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that Salt Lake is our home, and that no matter how hard we rebel and fight, it’s always gonna be.
Trish once told me that we’re all tethered to the place we come from with, like, invisible strings, and, like, if you go really far- I dunno, like, your sting gets too taut and, like, it hurts. I believe that. I believe I can’t go too far from here, and I’m never going to. I wouldn’t want to even if I could.
Steve-o pretty much drops me into bed, and I’m half asleep before I even hit the ground. I don’t dream though, but I swear- I swear it’s like I feel myself, like, leaving my body.
Drugs, man, drugs will fucking kill you.
When I wake up I’m outside, and it’s hot. Hot in a way it doesn't get in Utah. Humid or whatever, you know? And I’m fucking boiling, man, I am fucking boiling. The only shade is the shadow of whoever is looming over me, and I know I’m dead. I fucking know it. I’m dead, and apparently hell isn’t as hot as all those bible humpers said it was going to be. Fire and brimstone my ass. It’s just, like, tropical.
Oh. Or, like, maybe this is heaven. Do Jewish people even do heaven and hell? Man, I seriously should have gone to temple or something when I was younger.
“Are you Jesus or something?” I ask, blinking up but struggling to see who’s looking down on me. I sound like a fucking stoner though, and I rub my face roughly before starting over.
"Where the fuck am I?" I ask, my voice a bit harder than before as my brow creases and I narrow my eyes.
(First person to tag gets to explain the island to him, everyone else can find him wandering the compound or sitting outside smoking a cigarette. I cut for spoilers even though it's an older movie, if only because if you've never seen it, you might not want to know.)
Not that anyone is watching that crazy old bastard.
My father is living proof of how bad the army can fuck a guy up, man. That guy came back from the war all kinds of fucked up. I’m not even sure how he managed to have me… But whatever, it was his birthday, and he’s my dad. So I grabbed Steve-o and we just fucking went down to that tin shack he calls a house. …And the son of a bitch tried to shoot us.
He looked me right in the eye, and he had no idea who I was.
Not that I care. Not that It matters. I don’t care if that old fool remembers me. I don’t need him. I have family. I have Steve-o and I have Trish. Trish, who is like a goddess, who I worship. She’s like- she’s like an adult, you know? She has her store and she knows all this stuff. She’s like a poet. She says all these things, and I, like, know I’ll never be on her level, but I’m thankful that she just lets me be near her.
I love her. Call me a fucking poseur if you want, man, but- I fucking love her.
Still, I hurt, I dunno why, but I fucking hurt. I keep thinking about my dad and it’s fucking killing me. Like, if I think any more, my head might explode.
I just want to go to the god-damn bathroom, but there’s John and one of those other mods in my way, and he’s got some chick hanging off his arm who’s telling me she’s got some vitamins I should take. Fucking pills man. It’s always fucking pills. I don’t care anymore though, and I take a fistful without even looking, washing it down with the rest of my beer.
I don’t really know what happened after that. I just know my head still hurts and Steve-o is driving me home. I’m talking about Trish, and I know he’s not even listening. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that Salt Lake is our home, and that no matter how hard we rebel and fight, it’s always gonna be.
Trish once told me that we’re all tethered to the place we come from with, like, invisible strings, and, like, if you go really far- I dunno, like, your sting gets too taut and, like, it hurts. I believe that. I believe I can’t go too far from here, and I’m never going to. I wouldn’t want to even if I could.
Steve-o pretty much drops me into bed, and I’m half asleep before I even hit the ground. I don’t dream though, but I swear- I swear it’s like I feel myself, like, leaving my body.
Drugs, man, drugs will fucking kill you.
When I wake up I’m outside, and it’s hot. Hot in a way it doesn't get in Utah. Humid or whatever, you know? And I’m fucking boiling, man, I am fucking boiling. The only shade is the shadow of whoever is looming over me, and I know I’m dead. I fucking know it. I’m dead, and apparently hell isn’t as hot as all those bible humpers said it was going to be. Fire and brimstone my ass. It’s just, like, tropical.
Oh. Or, like, maybe this is heaven. Do Jewish people even do heaven and hell? Man, I seriously should have gone to temple or something when I was younger.
“Are you Jesus or something?” I ask, blinking up but struggling to see who’s looking down on me. I sound like a fucking stoner though, and I rub my face roughly before starting over.
"Where the fuck am I?" I ask, my voice a bit harder than before as my brow creases and I narrow my eyes.
(First person to tag gets to explain the island to him, everyone else can find him wandering the compound or sitting outside smoking a cigarette. I cut for spoilers even though it's an older movie, if only because if you've never seen it, you might not want to know.)