Pantscarpet

I couldn't find a picture of pantscarpet. But here is a picture of a college student demonstrating his balanced diet.

This is a response to a startlingly serious article on Cracked by John Cheese about how life does get better after high school if only for the fact that at least you have the freedom to give things a shot.

Here is my response:

I like you, John. The pantscarpet thing made me laugh because that is exactly what I see when I go over to my son's apartment. Pantscarpet and pizza boxes. I'm his ride to the community college because taking the bus in this area pretty much sucks balls, and it gives us a chance to talk. I'm still trying to get out of squalor myself, and I'm nearly 50. He's smarter than I was, though, and not as impaired by mental illness (literally) as I was for so many years. I think he'll be better off. No, I'm not one of those minority mentally ill people that make the news with their Charlie Sheen or worse behavior. I'm one of the majority of mentally ill people: the ones who struggle in silence with their disease and are marginalized. Help is not readily available and most of it is unaffordable. But yes, at least I am away from high school and the cliques and other bullshit. I made my first suicide attempt in high school. Wow--that was all serious and a rant! But that's the kind of response you can expect to sagelike wisdom from the magic pimp bus (I like that too!)

Here is an extension of that response:

I am nearly 50 years old and the shit from high school still affects me. Some of the memories are as fresh and raw as they were yesterday. I really wish I could afford counseling because I need to lay these fucking zombies to rest and get on with my life. Just like in high school, I still don't fit in and every now and then I find myself still pathetically trying (like with those writing prompts) even though it is not possible. I don't know if I'll ever stop being pathetic that way but I can at least try not to make an ass out of myself. I need to realize that I will never be pretty or popular and that it's time to stop thinking that either of those things really hold any importance. I'd still like to win the fucking lottery, though. Because rich? That's something I could handle! And now if you will excuse me I will have my awesome breakfast of Lance Captain's Wafers. Because that is the kind of shit I've been eating for the past couple of weeks--it was all I could afford. I shit you not.

If I had known that life after high school at almost 50 years old would involve this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner unless I could mooch food off other people instead of the ultra cool life of a rock star, actress, or famous writer, I would have jumped feet first into a wood chipper while pushing my head in with a plunger. Because that, my friends, quite simply sucks unwashed ass.

Nonetheless, trite though it sounds, I treasure the times taking my son to the community college. I enjoy seeing him progress and pursue his dreams. I know he has learned from my mistakes. If he succeeds, somehow it will all be worth it in the end. 

If I could rub a magic lamp and get one of those wish-granting assholes to come out, the first thing that I would wish for is for my son to have a happy, prosperous, long, healthy life. The next would be for me to be able to believe in myself. I was going to have the third be for hope, but if I believed in myself that would be rolled into the package, I think. So the third would probably be for people to realize what a kick ass writer I was before I died--none of this frustrating posthumous crap like H.P. Lovecraft got saddled with. He lived on canned beans and cheap cuts of meat while scraping out a meager living mostly as an editor, not for the great stories he wrote. 

Hell, it's no wonder HPL died young, and it's some wonder that he didn't ask to be buried with his ass sticking out of the ground so everyone could kiss it. If I had to subsist on canned beans and the butcher's cheap castoff cuts, I'd probably be kind of bitter. Then again I'm a bit more of an asshole than Lovecraft was, though we both share the suicide ideation and the tendency to write about doomy shit. 

Luckily for the world I won't be buried with my ass sticking out of the ground either. When all is said and done, I've requested that this old hulk be cremated. But I could request a big middle finger on my memorial stone. We shall see!