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Reno's Horrible Childhood

Self psychiatry or anti-solvency?

Never said it betterCommentary by Reno

Seen as my little ad for getting a date did not produce the results of millions of beautiful, intelligent females sending me notes of sympathy and dirty sex fantasies, I decided to push my shortcomings more up your eyes and squeeze my self hatred through that empty abyss between your hearing organs. People have been told by me for years to blow themselves, and it's usually because they whine. Fuck you. Now I'm whining, and if you want to complain about hypocra-crap and dork-ness-es like that, go blow yourself. My life is HARD, HARDER than ANYONE elses!! Yeah! Screw you for thinking you have it tough! Feast your eyes on THIS, and be ashamed of me!

I was born in a Chevrolet S-10 on June 2, 1979. As I exited my mother's baby shooting hole, my umbilical cord wrapped around my head and suffocated me. I died. Er. Wait...okay, let's start over, believeable! That's the key!

I was born in a hospital on June 2, 1979. As the doctor carefully removed me from my mother's birthing organ, he laughed at the size of my penis. I'm not kidding, it's all caught on horrible, mentally scaring beta 8 video tape, and replayed at every family birthday party before dinner. Anyway, I didn't care because I knew my penis would grow larger. It didn't. I am not laughing (anymore) so you STOP! Eh hem. So then I grew up listening to KISS music and CD's that my mom found left at her work. One of these was Nine Inch Nails, which I thought was SO cool I bought a poster for, displayed here. The night that I bought it, my aunt pasted replacements for Danny Lohner and Jerome Dillon, a down syndrome's children puppet (to help me increase my self esteem, through something similar looking to me) and Tina Turner (or at least a really good transvestite lookalike, to identify with role models). I cried myself to sleep for the next 7 years, until I went trick or treating for the first time.

P.S. Notice the look on Trent Reznor's face in the mentioned photograph. Did he KNOW that the picture he took for that shoot would be desecrated with Tina Turner so many miles and dreams from Los Angeles? Is the Down syndrome puppet trying to lick Charlie Clouser's razor sharp cheekbones? Everything is going insane like and spinning in my bowels like a blender from the Indian fault line!

As my 14th birthday present, my grandparents purchsed me a red hot Michael Jackson Halloween costume. Needless to say, after a night of frenzied beatings, strange encounters with females remaining from the time of the eighties, and many, many, MANY, other 14 year old superstar look a likes, I got back home with a Trick or Treat basket full of only used condoms, nickels, and half eaten candy. Even though I was completely drunk I decided from my contents (on my next lucent day) that it was a complete success.

The only problem I had was that my Harley riding uncle Argathor kept calling me Michael Jackdaughter because I looked like a fag. He was such a funny guy...that reminds me of my 6th Christmas...when he dressed up as Santa Claus. I snuck down stairs because I heard this large rustle, and there I saw him (or so I thought) SANTA CLAUS! I ran up to him and shook his hand, and he just looked at my sadly and finished his cookie and beer. Finally, he spoke and my face lit up with 50's sitcom face cheer, "Son, it's great to see you so enthusiastic, but no one is ever supposed to see Santa Claus..." at this point he pulled out a boot knife from his happy stocking cap, "...and I have to kill you now."

I urinated my pants for the next three hours, and to this day my heart races with fear when I see a mall Santa and I curl up into a ball on the floor whimpering "...no...no...Santa...no..." until the security squads carry me out to my automobile.

And that brings us to our coming soon conclusion. Current day me. After all my rough experiences in the ghetto gutters of Detroit Michigan, my meanderings through the streets of Harlem wearing a KKK propaganda t-shirt that my uncle so lovingly tricked me into thinking meant something about New Kids on the Block, and my battles with lunch ladies over giving me my glasses back when they stole them and started laughing as I stumbled into hot, sharp machinery...I survived to become a hardened, in yo face, a-class son-of-a-bitch. But that doesn't help me with the chicks.

My first love was a girl named Jolina, and boy was she the best thing that ever happened to me...ahh...I remember our walks through the wilderness, fainting in the swamp from blood loss caused by mosquito mating season, our "fooling around" (usually resulting in welts and embarassing hospital trips), and our frolics in the fields full of horse shit and large rocks, that caused for some very hot moments...and a lot of exotic infections. Until the one day, when some new punk came to school, oh, he was cool, that's for sure. The mohawk, the pierced anus, the tatooed armpits...whoa, I had no chance, but I thought Jolina had more integrity than to give welts to that guy instead of me. Well, I was wrong, and I was left sick, depressed, and making Jedi Knight levels late at night. Sadly, almost every relationship I've had...er, well, if you count that one time I stalked Christina Ricci, have been exactly like that. I dunno, is it because of the way I look?

Anyway, there you have it. Now, all you women who were hesitently twitching at your keyboard just WAITING for the chance for me to NEED your comforting, now is the time to make your manipulating digits spasm in a way as to contact me through email with your thoughts of your concern, and your steamy offerings of welt givings and medical treatment promises. That is all.

get back mothafugga!

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