The first song I knew the words to, or well at least remember knowing the words to was "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails, I was about five, and this was before I discovered the B52's (I was a pretty awesome kid).
So I will set the scene for you...imagine a five year old, jumping around singing and dancing, brown hair in a pony tail, in the basement of a house with cement floors and a couch that had seen better days.
"I want to feel you from the inside/I want to fuck you like an animal."
Of course, I was five. So I had no idea what these words actually meant. I also thought the singer probably had nine inch finger nails, and was a very demented person, cause after all who would grow their nails out to be nine inches long.
This goes along directly with some of my first words..."Kitty, Meow, Balloon, Juice, Fuck", but at least my parents could pass off fuck as truck, when I was a baby.
I have long thought that we were all products of how we were raised, "The first part of your life is ruined by your parents, the second part of your life is ruined by your children"
But if that’s true, I should be miserable, right? But I'm not. Yeah sure, I can be cynical some times, and I have bad days, but overall, I am happy. Like right now, during week 4 day 2 of headache, I'm sitting at my desk, wearing sunglasses, singing along with "Bye Bye Miss American Pie" writing a blog post.
And yet, there are other people out there, people with everything, and yet they are miserable. The easy (flippant/funny) answer is "they have drugs for that".
So what’s my secret? The funny/easy answer is head trauma. After all, I've had more concussions than some professional football players. But I think it comes down to more than that. I've long expected that I will not live much past 30, perhaps that’s not true, but I think it is. And while that might depress some people I accept it as a fact of life, after all I'm only alive right now cause I am lucky. And because I don’t expect to survive I have given myself some degree of freedom to be stupidly reckless. I don’t mind if I die, so why not have fun and die doing something I enjoy, like getting rides from strangers. Or drinking a snakebite, just cause my favorite bar tender saw me walk through the door and had it waiting for me at the bar, even though I had taken drugs that could kill me if I mixed them with alcohol.
Warning labels are for those that care about consequences. I read them, but then decide they don’t matter. My brain rationalizes this behavior, like it has everything else, as just a way to live, really live, because it doesn’t matter how many years are in your life, if you have never lived a single one of them.
Yet, when I see this behavior in others, it freaks me out. It really freaks me out, cause they have stuff to live for, don’t they? I am in no position to judge, and I don’t, but at the same time, I can be worried about someone. Which leads me to my new rule: If your gonna live like me, carry pepper spray.