It's Too Late To Take it Back Now

I’ve spent too many years of my life being a nice guy. Now all I feel like doing is saying “frak it!” Why bother. Why even care anymore. All I’ve ever got from being the “nice guy” is a hard dick and a bunch of stories about how I’m such a great friend. Or great guy or whatever great bullshit they want to lay on my doormat to make them feel better about dumping my “nice” ass! I don’t understand my I continually let myself get worked up over girls that are just in it for a fun time. Somehow I seem to attract these girls. Well I guess it’s because I’m a “fun lovin’ asshole!”

I should really try and be more like my friend Ben. He’d get girls so easy just by treating them like second-hand citizens. He told me that he ended up becoming so lazy about taking girls out to dinner, is that all he would do with them is take them on a walk or treat them to a drink at his place. Then if they didn’t put out by the second date, he’d dump them, like an old battery. Why can’t I be more like Ben. He’s never standing around holding his dick in his hands, feeling like a jackass standing over the edge of a cliff about to fall off. No! It’d never happened to him. No, I’m the sucker because I believed my mother when she talked about chivalry. I believed the romantic comedies from the 80s. I believed that good things happen to good guys. Well let me tell you the truth before you get too far in life and end up holding your dick in your hand. It’s all BULLSHIT!

Just indulge me for the next little while as I tell you a story about a pitiful idiot named Christopher Lawrence Gillis. Born in a hot as hell state known as Arizona. God only knows why any peckerwood would want to live there. I was the second child to the sometimes psychotic parents, Donna and Larry. If it wasn’t bad enough being born in Satan’s favorite place to vacation, I came out as a blue baby. My mother told me that she was mortified that I came from her womb. Thanks mom. Well I wasn’t breathing, I wasn’t crying. Hell I wasn’t doing anything but looking ugly and lying in the doctors arms.

Finally after several hours of them doctors and nurses poking and prodding me they figured out that my heart wasn’t working like a normal baby’s heart should. Well I was thrown into breathing machine until, the doctors could find other doctors to figure out how in God’s green earth they were going to keep me alive. For the first six months I was in and out of St. Joseph’s hospital. My mother said I looked and acted like a baby straight out the exorcist movie.

This time of being locked up in a breathing container rather than wrapped in the arms of my mother is where I give most of the blame in my life for being so damn co-dependent. Some doctor who was smarter than the last doctor figured out I was born with a heart problem known as transposition of the great vessels. It took me until I was 21 to finally learn how to spell transposition. I’ll continue this tragic tale at another time. I feel like changing the subject.