Water under the bridge? More like illegal, lethal chemicals dissolving the bridge. by insert_username_here
One bus ticket, one last chance to get home, all that is needed is one dollar and seventy-eight cents...but what is in the pocket of these torn, worn, has-carried-too-much-porn blue jeans is a bazooka gum wrapper, a parking ticket, and a letter of abandonment from the father. This...this right here...was the shitty-**** movie I was being forced to watch. This was worse than detention when I was in second grade. This was worse than watching Sesame Street for an hour and a half while working out because some dumbass fell of of the gym's treadmill and broke the remote to the TV with his own weight. What's sad about all this is that this was my first date. That little tidbit about my youth may give you some insight into why I am how I am today-the only good thing about that day was that it ended. I'm getting ahead here, lemme back up. In 1997 When I came into this world, at least the part that doesn't involve my mother's guts, I was named Launce Amantius Foss. Launce means gentle, and Amantius means loving. If you're wondering, my parents were not as smart as the guy that fell on the remote. That guy probably would have pwned them in college, if they had been smart enough to pass the admission test. The only fitting part of my name is Foss, which is french for ditch, which is probably what my whole entire family line had been digging. As a career. To make money. With which they bought a used shovel. For twenty bucks. Then came my toddler years, and I must have spent the whole time wondering what that good smell was in my basement, and why I saw something like better-looking versions of my parents in magazines that were published in the seventies. After those years came primary school, where I learned what that good smell was. And when I learned how to sit outside the basement door when it was strongest, and inhale deeply. After that came elementary school. What I remember most about those years is a strong hatred of school food and pokemon, one of the crazes of my childhood. In middle school, I found companionship with a human being that might as well have started using the boys' bathroom and pronouncing "herself" a biological hackjob. What told me of this kindred spirit was "her" name- Belle Edith Anderson. Belle-beautiful. Edith-peaceful. Anderson-son of Andrew. Her father's name is Andrew. 'Nuff said. High school is a fog to me now, mostly a fog of pot, sifting through the vent above the bathroom door. The rest was a year at an all-male boarding school with Belle, who was still my best friend at the time. I'll let you puzzle that one out on your own. Along with my post-high school years came my first night at a police station, and not for a job interview. More like charges of posession, vandalism, prostitution, and arson. And it wasn't exactly a night at the police station-more like a few years. I escaped, but i'll get to that later. It's not as if anything that happens to me is relevant-it won't kill me. After a bad accident involving chemicals that are to this day illegal in about 98 countries, a lot of things won't kill you. Even if you reinact every episode of 1,000 ways to die. Trust me-i've tried.
'Water under the bridge? More like illegal, lethal chemicals dissolving the bridge.' statistics: (click to read)