The College Kids, They Love Me!
(Vine? I thought it was a tree...)
Look, that's not really the point, Parenthetical Voice...
(You're already drunk, aren't you? God you disgust me.)
Yeah, well at least I didn't get thrown in jail for not making child support payments like SOME people!
That's what I thought. See kids, this is why you should be judgemental, especially if your mail is getting sent to the same house as the guy running the show.
(Bitch doesn't deserve my money)
Okay, that's just about enough out of your parenthetical ass. Why don't you go call your kids or something; I'm sure they miss you.
(She's dating a Urologist and they call HIM "Daddy" now...)
Yeah, well, divorce is hard on everyone, particularly disembodied deadbeat voices that live in punctuation marks... ANYWAY, the point I was trying to make before that little melodrama started was that, yes, I have poor eating habits and, again, this fact has been brought to my attention in such a way that I am compelled to write about it for all you lovely people to read and enjoy and take to heart the inherent lessons and so on and so forth. This go-around, said issue was pointed out to me by a young lady who now thinks I'm the coolest guy on the planet.
So, I'm at the grocery store, doing a large amount of shopping for the weeks ahead, stocking up on only the essentials... microwave popcorn, Hot Pockets, cans of chili, cans of beans, cans of off-brand ravioli, pizza bagel fixin's, and beer, among other, less-savory things; a representative from all the major food groups, provided we're all looking at a Food Group Pyramid sponsored and therefore content-directed by 7-11. After making sure that I haven't forgotten anything, particularly the beer, which I double and triple-checked because if that gets left behind, well then, might as well pack it and go live on a vegan commune for the rest of my life... you wouldn't think one six pack of beer would be the support beam keeping my life upright, but that's apparently totally the case... anyway, after checking my list and clapping eyes on my beer, I proceeded to the register.
Ringing me up was a proud example of our nation's youth; a girl with severely dyed hair, enough piercings to qualify her as an emergency fishing lure, and make-up applied via tossed re-appropriated water balloons. While scanning my items, she looked up at me with reverence and said:
"Wow, you're totally buying all the stuff I love to eat!"
And I said:
"Ah, well, I still eat like I'm in college."
And she, after a beat, said:
"I'M in college."
And I pointed out then that she had in fact proven my point. She rolled this around in her brain for a minute, face jewlery jangling like wind chimes, and then she smiled.
"So you're not in college now, huh?"
"And you still eat like this?"
"That's pretty awesome."
And it is, right? I mean, obviously, it's not because a grown-ass man shouldn't really be eating products that are such a shocking color of orange (the ravioli) or can only be cooked in a microwave (the popcorn) or are basically just bread sacks of cat vomit (the Hot Pockets), but... in a way... it totally IS awesome. I'm staying true to my roots, man, I'm not changing for ANYBODY. I'm very literally living out The Who's credo, "I hope I die before I get old," because the food I'm choosing to shove into my body at an alarming rate most likely WILL kill me before old age has a chance to settle in.
America, I... and not my Gothic-minded friend behind the register... am your youth. I am your punk kids struggling in the dorm, I am your failed-dream children working the metaphorical dead-end job that we commonly refer to as "life," I am, above all else, your eternal college student. Sure, the Freshman Fifteen has become more like a Freshmen Hundred, and, granted, me hanging out on the quad usually causes campus security to show up and direct me to a homeless shelter, but none of that MATTERS. My eating habits are terrible, amazing, and leave the youngsters in awe. I will live on, brothers and sisters. I will live on! Because the college kids, they love me!!! They really fucking do.
(You are so full of sad, pathetic shit.)
Dude, shut up.
(Can I crash on your couch tonight... I don't take up much room because I don't exist.)
Yeah, alright. But you're buying more beer.
(Mind if I split a box of Hot Pockets with you...?)
We'll see, Parenthetical Voice... we'll see...