Glory Days

There has to be something wrong with me if I can get nostalgic about a time when all I did was get nostalgic about times previous to that one.

Follow along, it’ll make sense…

The Summer of ’95: I couldn’t down two screwdrivers without getting all teary-eyed and shit, crying about a life that—at the time—I really didn’t know that I never really had. Most of the time I wailed about missing my moms, but somewhere down a back staircase in my mind I knew that what I was really complaining about was my own fucked up decision-making.

You know what I mean. Those little decisions that don’t mean shit at the time, but can wreck your whole chassis a couple years later. Shit like I better pull out before I cum, but gottdamn this pussy is good and next thing you know, you’re registering at Toys R Us. Or everybody’s favorite: I’ll just sell a few bricks to get caught up on my bills, then I’ll quit. That’s a popular one in the TV room.

Yeah, meng, those minor little decisions that turn out to be not so minor and nowhere as little after all. They call it the Butterfly Effect, I think. Anyway, that.

I was just bitchin’ about the fact that (steeeerike!) I’ve swung at some pretty bad pitches in my at-bat here on Mother Earth’s dusty sandlot. And that summer, me being fresh on the bricks after a nickel in the feds, that long, hot summer felt like I finally got the chance to sit back and admire my handiwork.

I was not impressed.