There’s makers and takers, like Paul Ryan said, except it’s more like makers and eaters, and honestly, it’s more the Paul Ryans taking from the non-Paul Ryans. Oh yeah, and my man, Pedro calls me “Mito.” He loves calling people “Mito.”

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My mom raised me to be fair, transparent, and willing to do stuff that isn’t prestigious when it’s necessary. Thanks, mom.

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We’re making our own violent lunatics at the end of the day, so if we’re going to keep doing this, I’m not planning on being here that long. Let’s stop fucking our kids up through adulthood.

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“I’m the only unique person or artist in the world.” – Everybody ever, 0 BCE-2013 CE

But I swear I am.

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Even though so many people aren’t qualified for the above mentioned “Charliework,” they have the gall to feel entitled to luxury and get fucking up in arms and throw tantrums when they don’t get it, akin to a bird being so upset that it isn’t fed a single cracker (AND WHO EVEN KNOWS IF IT WANTS THE CRACKER OF IF THAT IS JUST LIKE A TURN OF PHRASE NOW), it phones a militant animal rights group to complain about you. Then I’m all like, “Nah, BOOM BANG POW BLAM” almost drunkenly and incoherently like WWF star Roddy Piper and it just brings everybody together in mutual outrage, close as the connected eyebrow of noted painter, Frida Kahlo. EXPLAINED.

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Life’s tough, so let’s do some party drugs. No, actually, let’s do some AJKLF:AUF:ASUFKLS:AF You can tell that I am frustrated by a lot of stuff :/ Anyway, I don’t actually huff paint, but it’d be about as useful to me as doing Molly, and that way I could summon the Day Man, who excels at Karate and Friendship. “Charliework” refers to drudgery, often reserved for creator of the Day Man, Charlie on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, who resents said drudgery. But y'all ain’t even qualified for that.

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Most of my Brooklyn life has kept me on the R Train as a commuter and it is a pretty ill scene with respect to the homeless population, unfortunately many of whom are mentally ill. There’s one dude who has a voice like an earthquake and speaks like he’s doing Shakespeare in the park but he wears bags on his feet and a rope-hung cardboard placard over his chest. He gives these beautiful pleas for help and nobody helps because, perhaps rightfully so, it’s presumptuous and naive to think a couple of bucks will give him any sort of headway toward repairing his life. He’s the reason I wrote this stanza, along with a few other folks.

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The aforementioned vapid, gabby folks who think they know everything do vulgar shit like brazenly sniff coke in semi-public settings and have no substance or investment in anything that lasts and yet you have to cater to them to exist. It’s a fucking chore.

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Grammatically, this is a bit of a wreck because I meant that my pulse is racing as if I had ingested Guarana [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guarana], which is a stimulant found in a lot of energy drinks. But yeah, it’s nerve-wracking when you’re looking for answers in unlikely places because you’ve exhausted every other avenue. I liken it here to Jill Valentine using the song “Moonlight Sonata” to open a hidden door in Resident Evil 1 http://youtu.be/QNmfJSDLkWY?t=12m30s
It’s enough to drive a man to drink his troubles away while having to listen to vapid people tell you about misinterpreted and decontextualized aspects of your own religion that have been co-opted by celebrities and new agers. Rant: done.

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Our country’s gun zealots (not all owners, just the zealots) are on some bullshit using the dated views of imperfect men to permanently disallow any common sense limits on guns without acknowledging and engaging that the Founders weren’t gods or paragons. They were smart dudes with attitude, sure, but they advocated, codified, and abided lot of antidemocratic shit and a lot of just straight up evil, to use a sensational term.

Addendum: I meant to say “they ain’t ever found a way,” not “find a way.” I just didn’t want to redo it because it was a really solid take. Grammar can eat my dick.

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