(Originally 8/23/06)
...this Benefactor's son wants to wreck my whole gig.
He keeps bringing his druggie friends to the house.
One of these nights, these glassy-eyed, zoned out, modern-day equivalent hippie freaks are going to get curious and kill me.
You see it on the news all the time. The Trenchcoat Mafia, the surburban brothers who samurai sworded their parents to death, the Texas Dragging--bored, idol, rich white kids with no motive or meaning but to push the envelope and take someone's life just for the 'rush', the 'thrill' or just to do something in the world that 'matters'.
I'm not intetested in their need for stimulation. I just want to make it out of this house alive. And when I decided I was going to move in here, it certainly wasn't under the assumption that I'd be a live-in, troubled-teen drug counselor, because I tried it (not the live-in part) and I'm not good at it. And this boy has no intention on being any different. After all, why should he? His father doesn't care. His father's a bigger junkie than he is, and he's been using for twice this boy's lifespan.
So, there it is. After a month of mucho creativity and an upturn in my finances, if I suddenly stop blogging for weeks on end, and you hear of a senseless suburban murder in Paramus NJ (if the media will even care enough to cover it), and you see this hideous, lank-haired, crazy-ass lunatic of a kid's mugshot, you'll know how I ended.
Mourn me, that's all I ask.
And a little vengeance on my behalf wouldn't go unappreciated.
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