When you name your blogpost at the end, the best thing to say is, "This didn't turn out like I expected"

I am in your schools. I walk among your children, breath the same air, there is nothing that seperates me from them but older skin and a black parka. Like them, I listen to my parents, eating vegetables, broccoli say, even when I am not told to do so. I live in a shitty town for no money from all the goodness of my heart which poors over this runny earth like fresh milk, all whole, never distilling the great eagerness to serve my country, nobley self-sacraficing, a hero. And there are nights when I drink sweet peppermint shnapps mixed with pure-cane-sugar root beer--sip on the foam down 1/5 of the can, then Fill 'Er Up!--while my eyes blur from computer screens and videogames, FUCK becoming every other word, transformed into a monster, the kind every twelve-year-old wants to be, though some never are. I have taken hallucinagenic drugs and enjoyed them, found them spiritual, I have worked in the bitter cold. I have made apologies, taken them back, made apologies, taken them back, made apologies in my own mind knowing I am better than this. I don't need to eat this/smoke this/listen to this/ read this to make me feel good. But then I do, and I do read! I read all the time; stuff that would make your hair turn posh feeling the elitism pouring from your very follicles, creeping in a shiver, over the crown and down the neck, that death part with the Vulcans, just above your shoulder blades where it creeps back in for more.
Sometimes the drinks are not so sweet, but bitter Jack and Cokes, and I can pretend it's the residual Thanksgiving glow that has covered my rockhard six pack, eight pack, twelve pack, but it's these tall drinks with red straws, I think. Sometimes I imagine myself at these places every night, not the dark ones with the people with no teeth, but the bright Christmas light bars with the 30-somethings who have more life, and I'm with the crew at the bar, Did you hear what happened last time? it was incredible!, night after night where we drink till we're comfortable together, and then the next day we know more about the other and it's easier to stay alive, together, in this place, with each other.
That's what Andrew does.
He says, "that's what she said,"
But not in the way that gets repeated over and over, although, but it sounds better than most people. So I'm working with my hands outside and drilling and the drill will get stuck because Lee doesn't know that you can't leave the drill in there without letting it come out while turning, whirwhirsckkk, and I'll say "its stuck in there good," and here comes Andrew's part:
"That's what she said! ... In bed... ...when we were naked... together, at night... in the dark..." until we can't take it anymore and break up even though it isn't funny at all.
So I say these things that my mother doesn't like to hear her son say, and my little sisters shouldn't know about, for their own good for sure, until they are encouraged to close their ears. Don't listen to your brother's sins! Role model, my A--! don't smoke weed, don't smoke cigarettes, don't smoke... just don't smoke! and always use a condom, and check the expiration date, but in fact we all know these things, and my mistakes might just be the only thing that makes me different from you.
I hate cake. I hate cake. I hate cake, but sometimes it's not the taste I hate. It's looking around the table and seeing these faces, It tastes so good, with their eyes curled back and fingers deep in moist cake flesh, and they really love it. And I love to hate it. I reject the cake even when offered with the glass of frothy milk which I know I'll love just to reject it and say:
"This cake? This cake is not me!"
And when I hate it, I'll hate it forever just for some distance because this is the place where you end and I begin and we can call it, "The Cake Line" enter blocky graphics flying from top-left staggering to right-center and Barbara Walters thinks it's so intriguing. It's a mask I wear with no regret, this cake-hating, because even when I'm all alone with a box of delicious chocolate cake I will never taste it, that would be rejecting myself. Bring on the Wedding Pie! Blueberry, Strawberry, Raspberry Flavor Fusion.
I am all these people described, how many?, these extremeties tangled together. The Drunkard finger pointing at the god-fearing temple, turning slowly counter-clockwise, craaaazyyyyy, and I love it. I add this to say that even under a cloak of grief I find comfort, that we all find comfort in being alone out in the cold of a foreign place under a foot of snow that hasn't left and it's been here not just a day, but a week! It's strange when you see it, right in front of you, all the time, this thing that you'd read about and seen on a screen in the dark, but here crunching underfoot. The best part is now you know what it means when people say, "The snow crunched underfoot." You're alone and you love it, even when you're crying, not that you ever would no no.

And then I remember, there are people who are affected by what you say, Colin. With great power comes great responsibility. It's the spoiler analogy I'm nodding to now, when you haven't read the book (SYMBOLISM: my life as I live it, from my eyes with my thoughts) and you don't want it spoiled, then read no further! This warning is only half-hearted, I will still edit myself (though I won't tell you that again, dear reader) still for the sake of the little ones spare the harse words, but the feelings... the feelings will reign in this place like never before. Your private lives are on display here, and beware my friends, autobiographies of the wicked are beautiful when recounting events 20 years past, but in the present, apocalyptic volcanos, crawling lava hardening over fresh sores. In eternal transcript. Online. For you to read. Good luck.