Morals come and go, depending on a good orgasm count. That's not science or anything, just my opinion. I've done the research, sure. Maybe even formulated a hypothesis or two. Skipped over a few principles on my way to a climax.
I try not to cross the fucking line.
The line gets hard to see when your life is murky as fuck.
I started taking classes at the local university the last semester of my ninth grade in high school. It was this wonderful program that allowed for smart dipshits like me to take college-level classes in areas where we excelled, rather than resorting to criminal mastermind behavior. The benefits were imagined to be multi-fold; the completion of the first year of college would likely ensure that I remained dedicated to pursue a degree, the added course load and challenging work had the potential to keep me from illicit activities, and a change of scenery while boarding in a dorm room miles from home would be beneficial to my depression and anxiety issues.
Spoiler Alert: tanked three for fucking three on that lot.
I was a delightfully engaging and thoroughly attentive student; scoring points with faculty and students alike. I discovered new history, and learned the geography under my feet. I delved into the economics of why I didn't have any money, and computed the statistics it would take to get me the fuck out of there. I soaked up knowledge of this groovy new technology called "the internet" and opened the connectivity to other oddball outcasts such as myself.
And then on the second day, I remembered that I was unsupervised.
There is plenty of evidence (in court storage) to negate the alleged positive effects of dropping a fifteen year old into the center of a college campus. A fifteen year old with a propensity for dark doings. Living in a dorm.
Are you fucking mad?
I stayed for the next semester too, because of course I fucking did.
After that, I believe the juvenile probation officer deemed the campus to be outside of my "house arrest zone," as if the 500 yards surrounding my home was a hot new hangout where all the cool kids went. My depression got a little worse after that; being confined to a repurposed train station in the heart of an empty valley is enough to drive anyone off the tracks. And rails. Oh, I did rails. We ALL did rails.
The biggest lesson that I gleaned from the hours of community service, the weeks of juvenile confinement, the months of reporting for cup-pissing, and the surprise visits to the my section of the back-country by obviously-lost government family service workers, was to keep my fucking mouth shut.
I learned all sorts of other things along the way too, things you only bring up on drunken nights or in blog company. Like rolling joints with tampon wrappers and bible pages; how to fake basketball; using the phrase "behind you," drinking Jacob's Best beer, how to hide in a drainage tunnel, the chemistry of chewing pills, where the biggest drainage tunnels were, the proper method of destroying a hard drive, the importance of hand-drawn plans, how to stitch up a shin gouge from crawling in a drainage tunnel that was too small, and when to keep your fucking mouth shut.
I learned all sorts of wrong things along the way too, things I don't usually bring up even when I am drunk.
Those are the skills I use while dealing with management.
There's this place at the brim of nothing and the corner of somewhere that I like to stand. Teetering between knowing what the fuck I'm doing and seeking gratification for no deed I've left undone. Wanting to stand poetically backlit by my sanctimonious rantings on incorruptibility; knowing where I come to be, where I come from, where I came last.
Whiskey and motherfucking water.
It burns, and oh god how it burns.
It burns in the way that only whiskey does, caramel smooth and hard. It burns in the way that you fucking know is going to hurt later. YOU FUCKING KNOW. And you swig the water, smiling with false confidence, like the water... like the water can stop the burn.
There's this pace of trying to belong that I keep trying to meet. Like eventually I'll get to the point of being dead inside wherein I experience a period of regrowth.
Maybe I think orgasm is the skeleton key to unlock the alternate universe where I don't hate myself.
I don't know when I crossed the line.
Some days I would tell you I haven't.
Some days I would show you a video.