I was raised on a tuna boat about 70 nautical miles off the coast of Madagascar. I’ve seen creatures birthed from the bowels of the deepest seas, which rise like plankton at low tide to harvest the souls of men. I’ve seen horrors that make Freddy Kruger look like a fluffy Teletubby who’s cradling a care bear cub wrapped endearingly in a warm blanket. I’ve met the deity labeled “El Diablo”, and I’ve got news; he’s ticklish as an apple cheeked school girl, and has a tender exterior like that of ripe red tomato fresh from the vine.
I molested my uncle when I was 10 years old. He has since forgotten how to receive love or joy from another human, and instead seeks to invert the void by empting bottle after bottle of the strongest alcohol man can ferment. Hoping that the next floozy with a tautly expression that bears the brunt of his misplaced manhood will deliver him from the abyss.
Six out of the last nine animals I’ve lived with have died of natural causes at roughly the 60% marker on an ordinary life line. The Homeless give me handouts without any conscious avocation. I wander through the back alleys of foreclosed Skippers restaurants, bathing in the aroma that shadow the dumpsters just for that piece of nostalgia that reels my senses back to my childhood.
What does not make you stronger only kills you. I’m following two of the four horsemen of the apocalypse via their twitter links. The revolution will be televised, and E.A will make the video game adaptation, Michael Bay will film the blockbuster summer hit based on the true story, and Beyonce will make the ensuing music video.
Before I die, I want to teach a child to read, a mule to …
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