Stuff doesn’t bother me, you know… I just start writing and I just go with whatever whim gets me off at the time. I have a very positive self-image.

Maybe it’s kind of funny to me because I’ve been there; I didn’t always think of myself the way I do now. My older brother was a complete male reproductive organ to me growing up, and it wasn’t even like we were close or we the kind of relationship that would make that kind of thing ok. My parents seemed to place everything and everyone else around me first. I often felt like I was made he bum of the joke. That’s pretty much where it started I think; then again, moving forward from that kind of origin doesn’t exactly produce healthy subsequent relationships.

Things happen though and people change. As much as I might hate to admit it, joining the army was an important part of my personal development. It inadvertently honed my writing skills- as there was **** else to do during initial training; most importantly, it taught me to grab life by the balls and squeeze the **** out of it like lemonade… or maybe it was when life gives you lemons kick it in the balls, or maybe just play with your balls, **** your life away and drink lemonade. Either way, I’m happy.

They say humor is often a way to deal with hardship. That’s where I think the edge comes from- the biting drive inside me that says “**** you, bumhole. You haven’t been through the **** I have; you’re not pulling one over on me.” I’m not angry though. I wouldn’t bother with this if it wasn’t something I enjoy.

Holy **** Joey is that you? Are you posting **** out of my old journals on the internet again? What the **** man. I’m telling mom.