Worst of 2013

In a year full of Wet Noodles [my new way of ranking films now being, in order from greatest to least, Great, Enjoyable, Wet Noodle, Terrible], a few films in particular stood out as being especially terrible or otherwise disappointing. Hopefully I'll be coming up with a best-of list for 2013 here soon but there are still a few films I need to see before I can fairly assess the year in full (I'm looking at you, The Wolf of Wall Street). It may not even be a top ten list, because this year I saw (yet again) even fewer movies than usual in theatres, so some of the big hits of the year (Gravity) will inevitably not be on it.
However, in the meantime, I figured I'd go ahead and break down some of the "worst" films of the year, as a bit of fun and a nice change of pace. So, without further ado,

[in no particular order]
1. Gangster Squad
The screenplay for this film was actually blacklisted a few years back, but its fate was sealed when Ruben Fleischer was attached to direct. Fleischer splashed onto the scene with Zombieland, a decent piece of work that was put together well, had a solid cast, was entertaining, and mildly clever. However, this was more due to the screenwriter (Rhett Reese) than the man in the director's chair. Fleischer followed that up with 30 Minutes or Less (also blacklisted!), which was a bit of a slip-up but still managed to be fast-paced, entertaining, and funny enough. But now he's shown his true colors. Gangster Squad is an insipid fucking film, a prime example of what's wrong with Hollywood today. It had tons of potential. Let's look at the list of promised flavors real quick: great cast, period piece, hard-R violence, gangsters, style. So what happened? It got watered down and turned into plastic by the powers that be. It's the cinema equivalent of seeing an ad on eBay for an "ORIGINAL MONA LISA!!!" so you order it, but when it arrives in the mail it turns out to be a Polaroid. In an attempt to appeal to the largest crowd possible and rake in the $, every aspect of the film was filtered and soulsucked to the point that it plays more like a parody of what it's trying to be. Avoid at all costs.

2. Broken City
This actually got a few decent reviews, including one by my current-favorite pop culture critic extraordinaire Bob Chipman (Google him), but even the best of us are wrong from time to time. Broken City wasted its on-board talent of Wahlberg and Crowe and was a complete bore-fest. I saw this movie in the theatre and had a difficult time staying awake. What wants to be a hard-boiled crime yarn is actually a very predictable procedural with absolutely no interesting developments, attempts to inject something new, or real psychological drama. Yawning all the way through, both actors phone in their performances, going through the motions like they're barely even there. We're expected to feel something for these characters but instead all the real moments a film like this needs to be interesting are replaced by broad plot-point brushstrokes that only serve to carry us to the conclusion. Completely drained of any tension it could have had, you'd be better off completing a paint-by-numbers book.

3. Only God Forgives
I don't even know how to properly explain what went wrong here. Nicolas Winding Refn all caught our attention back in 2011 with the Ryan Gosling vehicle (no pun intended) Drive, a perfect example of art-house action done right. So the spiritual follow-up, Only God Forgives, came with a pretty big set of expectations. Unfortunately, it turns out Drive was a fluke and Winding Refn can't make serious films. Everything on display here is mere window dressing to make us think it's artistic, deep and thoughtful when in reality it's just a really beautifully shot film where absolutely nothing happens. There's little plot to speak of, I can't remember a single line spoken (except, perhaps, for "time to meet the devil"...but to be fair, that was the tagline), and the much-hyped ultraviolence is practically non-existent. Only plan on viewing if you're a super masochist.

4. The Heat
This one was a populist favorite, and it's really no surprise. And although I consider myself a populist at least 90% of the time, The Heat fucking sucked. Let me be upfront here: I'm sure Melissa McCarthy is a good actress. She had her moments in Bridesmaids, and even her other big stinker this year, Identity Thief, had a few good laughs, but that was more due to Jason Bateman's presence. But she has worn out her welcome already. Typecast faster than you can blink, McCarthy has become a one trick pony that Hollywood is more than willing to trot out on a leash and dance for your amusement, sucking up your hard earned dollars in the process. The biggest problem with The Heat (of which there are many, but I am not going to attempt to cover them all) is that it's simply one joke repeated ad nauseam for an insufferable 117 minutes: McCarthy says curse words. The entire engine of humor here is being fueled by that one gag, over and over in the most uninteresting ways possible. She simply strings together fucks shits cocks and balls and everyone doubles over laughing because --she's fat and those are naughty words!--. If you really stop and think about it for a second, you might realize what a stupid person you are for falling for it.

5. Man of Steel
My, how the mighty hath fallen. To comprehensively cover why this film is a steaming pile of shit would take up an essay in and of itself, so here's the Cliff's Notes. DC Comics has been struggling like hell to get their own cinematic universe up off the ground as soon as they realized just how far Marvel was knocking things out of the park, especially after The Avengers. So, in what I can only imagine was a fit of desperation, they gathered together all the talent they thought necessary to produce a real gem and breathe new life into their flagship IP: Superman. All they needed was Zack Snyder (big marketable name) to direct, Christopher Nolan (running out of Syncopy productions) to produce, and David S. Goyer (superhero writer savant) to pen the screenplay. Unfortunately, like a chemistry experiment gone awry, it blew up in their faces. I can't speak with any authority as to what exactly went wrong, since I'm not an industry insider, but I can say with absolute authority that David S. Goyer is a shitty fucking writer and hiring him was a big mistake. So that was the first misstep. Chris Nolan's presence was probably exercised in an attempt to add a certain amount of depth and psychological realism to the character (whereas before all his other appearances on-screen were draped in unabashed Silver Age comic book style), but Clark Kent is not Bruce Wayne, and the tone of the film got all muddled and lost in droopy melodrama...not to mention the washed out color palette (that was TOTALLY Nolan). The saving grace here should have been Snyder, who has proven he can direct slick, modern action with a deft hand (see: 300, Watchmen, and certain scenes from Sucker Punch). But holy shit did the action in this movie fall flat. Shaky cam abound and an overlong sequence of destruction-porn that would make even Michael Bay blush, awash in dust and debris and indistinct superpunches, the fights in this film were all lacking soul, to the point that when Kal-El snaps Zod's neck, we don't even care or flinch. Oh, and the plot was needlessly complicated and had a retarded MacGuffin. I highly suggest you all check your expectations for the upcoming Batman/Superman sequel at the door way in advance.

Boy Parts

I've noticed a problem lately, and it needs addressed. This is useful information whether you're gay, straight, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, queer, a friend of the LGBT community, or any other stupid label we're in the process of appending to the abbreviation to further confuse and confound the public.

Let's get a few preliminary things out of the way.

Straight people: Stop pretending you're an expert on social activism and that YOUR voice needs to be heard in the debate surrounding equal rights and the treatment of LGBT individuals in society.

Why? you may ask. Why would you want less peoples' voices heard in this discussion? Because honestly, I could give a fuck less about your opinion. You support gay marriage? Cool. If it hits the ballot, cast your vote. Let democracy work. In the meantime, I am issuing a cease and desist to all heterosexuals constantly posting pictures and statuses on Facebook with regards to equal rights and marriage equality. Enough is enough. Your self-aggrandizing bullshit has gone on long enough. You're only doing it to feel good about yourself, to put yourself on the "right side" of history, so you can talk down to and frown at your peers who aren't nearly as "progressive" as you, who aren't nearly as bleeding edge with their liberal viewpoints.
If you really love gay people, show support and solidarity for your homosexual peers simply by being their friend, by not treating them any differently than you would a "regular" person. It's okay to stand up for someone if they're being bullied, sure, but we are not children. We are not babies. We do not need your protection. We do not need to be coddled or sheltered. We are not a battered wives club.

Gay people: Stop pouncing on every perceived slight against you or your brethren like it's some kind of mortal sin. Your hypersensitive, reactionary behavior is only reinforcing the stereotypes, believe it or not, and isn't doing a damn thing at this point to further our cause.

Case in point: 
The other day, a [straight] girl I went to high school with posted a link to her friend's blog, who goes to school in Illinois. This friend is transgender, identifies as female, was born a male. Is still technically a male, but is going to transition to female. Apparently he got 'kicked out' of school [or maybe walked out, it's not made entirely clear] for demanding that he be allowed to use the girls' bathroom. After being told repeatedly he was not allowed to, he took it upon himself to use the facilities anyway, and was thereby punished (perhaps suspended? or something). Now this friend is going to the media, demanding that his school be thrown under a microscope, criticized, and forced to "get with the times" as it were, since clearly they are so backwards. The friend of mine who posted the link to this blog also mentioned that everyone should send angry emails to the principal of the school, and included his address in the post.
Does anyone else see the problem with this?
I did, and decided to make myself known. I aimed to present my viewpoint in a purely logical, detached way, not passing judgment, careful not to cross any lines or appear bigoted (because I'm really not, when it comes down to it. I don't "get" transgender people but hey, they're people too. People don't get me either, and I don't expect them to). I asked if he had transitioned to female yet. The answer is no. He still has his boy parts. So, I said, I don't see the issue here. He should use the boys' bathroom because he does, in fact, have boy parts.
Oh boy. Here's where the trouble started.

As you can see, I've been referring all this time to the transgender individual as "he." Why? Because we as a society need labels. You may not like them, but you cannot deny their convenience. They help us easily understand something without having to devolve into a discussion of semantics (but we'll probably end up doing that later anyway). The entire time I was having this discussion, my old high school buddy kept calling the individual "her." She clearly did not like the fact that I saw him as a male (because he has boy parts).

But anyway, I digress. She cried foul. Said, "it's the principle of the thing." 'She' should be allowed to use the girls' restroom because she identifies as such and wants to be treated as such.
Hmm...Yes, I surmised. It is indeed the "principle of the thing." The principle being, he should swallow his pride and use the bathroom with all the other boys until he transitions. Then he can urinate with the ladies all he wants.
You'd think I'd just suggested genocide. It's an outrage! 'She' should be allowed to use whatever bathroom 'she' wants! But no, instead she's being forced to use the unisex bathroom.
I nearly shit my pants at this revelation. This high school actually has a unisex bathroom, and our transgender friend is bent out of shape because he can't use the girls-only room? Okay, seriously. Now I'm starting to get a little upset. This is the sort of behavior nowadays I'm ashamed of, both from straight people and the LGBT community. All right, I said, I seriously don't see the problem here. He should just use the boys' bathroom, or the unisex bathroom. "But she has the law on her side," my friend said.
Oh really? These law codes (both Illinois state law and federal) were then provided to me. I can't reprint them here, because the person with whom I was having this conversation has since un-friended me and I can't go back and reproduce the thread word-for-word. Feel free to look it up yourself, but if you don't have the time or inclination I'll summarize: the law states that no person should be denied access to a fair and equal education, be discriminated against, or be excluded from the school and all educational facilities based on race, creed, etc., including gender identity. Okay, fair enough. But I still don't see the problem. I said, no one's being excluded here! This person has equal access to the restrooms just like every other student! They're just not allowed to use whatever restroom they want. There's a difference between equal access and preferred access.

I'm not a law student, I'm an English major, but even that much was obvious to me. But no! The would-be heroes of social justice were not to be deterred!
It was at this point that my friend insinuated that my perception of equality must be skewed, since I'm free to get married, just not to a man.
Ouch.
Okay, now I'm pissed. First of all, you're right and wrong. Right; because that's what the federal law says. Wrong; because that has fucking nothing to do with the topic at hand. Mustering up all the patience and restraint available to me in the moment, I replied that she should not compare her struggle to allow boys to use girls' bathrooms to my struggle for equal rights, and that she was "treading on extremely thin ice" and that her friend, which at this point, fed up with the dispute over pronouns, I simply referred to as "he/she", was not being discriminated against. End of story.

Then I got un-friended.

Looking back, this entire exchange was completely asinine and relatively pointless. But I'm still upset. Why? It's not just the fact that the transgender individual's argument was "because I want to" and that it would basically be the same as a girl deciding to shit on the establishment because they wouldn't let her go into the boys' bathroom and piss standing up. And at the end of the day, I hope his case goes nowhere. I hope that he might see the error of his ways and accept that life is full of disappointment. I also hope my friend might gain a little perspective. But they probably won't.
And that's still not even why I'm upset. I'll let the retards of the world persist.
No, I'm upset for one reason: this is indicative of a larger issue that I outlined in the beginning of this post. A heterosexual person actually thinking they were somehow more informed on the subject of equality and fair treatment than I was, and this was mostly centered on the fact that I kept referring to the transgender person as "he." I was planning on ending this post with a diatribe on gender as a social construct and the roles we assign in terms of labels and whether or not they're healthy, but I'm too tired and at the end of the day I don't really see the need. If you're offended by my usage, you can fuck off.

To reiterate: We do not need any more straight people soapboxing and spouting off their ideas out of some misguided notion that doing so will lend more credibility to the ongoing debate. Furthermore, and more importantly, I'm tired of people (gay and straight alike) thinking that "the man" is somehow out to get us, trample us, and keep us down. All this overly-reflexive anger amounts to is sweating the small stuff and letting the tiny details cloud the big picture. The entire argument resulted from a knee-jerk reaction to the fact that a transgender person was involved and I wasn't on their side. And that's really sad.

P.S. Political correctness is for losers.

All Bad Things Must Come to an End

[Major SPOILERS discussion to follow for DEXTER and BREAKING BAD. Do NOT read if you have not seen and/or plan to see these series finales.]

This month, two of my favorite shows of all time, "Dexter" and "Breaking Bad", aired their final episodes. Finito. Felina. However you want to say it. For better or for worse, they are gone and aren't coming back (despite the fact that AMC currently has plans for a prequel spin-off of BB concerning Bob Odenkirk's character, Saul Goodman). I'm currently going through a swirl of emotions, ranging from sadness, to elation, and disappointment. 

I guess you can call this a disconstruction, of sorts. I'm going to delve a little deeper into what happened and whether or not it worked. 

Both shows, oddly enough, revolve around antiheroes who do despicable things, and yet we root for them. Dexter is a serial killer, but he only kills those who 'deserve' it; Walter White is a meth dealer, who kills people and destroys other people's lives, but he's trying to provide for his family (at least at first, a notion which is going to be challenged by the end). 

Expectations, at least on my part, were sky-high for both of these finales, and in my opinion, one failed where the other succeeded. Let's start with Dexter: this ending does not work. 

Part of the problem here is that Dexter, for a long time, has been staffed by some hack writers and producers. But it was still entertaining, and still told a compelling story that promised a thrilling conclusion. The other issue is that over its 8 season run, Dexter underwent a series of managerial changes, with 'showrunners' and executive producers revolving in and out. Thus it does not reflect the vision of a single storyteller with a single purpose. They had to make shit up, write their way into and out of corners, and in many cases, come up with shitty gimmicks to keep the show going. The decision to end it now, this year, was a good one (partly because the show jumped the shark way back in 2009), and this season was actually pretty decent. They upped the stakes for Dex by compounding his relationship with his sister and introducing a new character from his past that knows who he truly is. 

By the final two episodes, a storm (both literal and figurative) is rocketing towards Miami, threatening to undo the lives of the main characters. The stage was set for a final shocking revelation (something the writers are actually reasonably skilled at concocting). Instead, the result was a rushed, ham-fisted conclusion that left many viewers feeling pissed off and cheated. Deb is dead, and Dexter is working as a lumberjack in some unknown new locale, presumably dealing with the mess his life has become. His son and girlfriend are living in South America, presumably living happy, productive lives (minus a father). 

What went wrong? If you look at the events leading up to the final episode, "Remember the Monsters?", the writers actually did try to squeeze some hints in there as to what was to come, and would allow the final decisions and fates of the characters feel organic. The entire time Dexter has been planning his escape with Hannah, he has been constantly reminded (both literally and figuratively) that it will not be possible to juggle the lives he is trying to present, that he cannot have his cake and eat it too. He must make a decision, while simultaneously trying to escape his bloody past and turn over a new leaf as a new, real, non-serial killer human being. 

The viewer should know better, and so should Dex. So that's not the result we're given. Good. That makes sense. Even Deb's death could be viewed as a result of Dexter trying to juggle the two diametrically opposed aspects of his newly emerging personality.

Ultimately, the problem boils down to shitty writing and poor pacing. Within a matter of what feels like minutes, Dexter begins making huge decisions with huge ramifications with seemingly little forethought. The decisions do not feel organic. He pulls the plug on Deb (which I'm still not entirely sure why...but whatever, she had to die anyway), fakes his own death and leaves his son stranded with Hannah. To add insult to injury, the viewer is treated with a final shot of a confused, bearded man we once recognized as America's Favorite Serial Killer. The image should be poignant, resonating with meaning. But it isn't. The writing needed to pull off these huge character transformations was absent, so we, the viewer, don't buy into the arc created and ultimately disconnect from the story. The driving factor in Dexter's storytelling, for a long time, has been his interior monologuing, which gives us a glimpse inside the mind of a character we otherwise wouldn't stand a chance of understanding because he's so unlike any human being any of us have ever met. This form of directly addressing the audience should have more clearly revealed Dexter's intentions, and more importantly, why he was making those decisions, why they were necessary, in those final moments. Instead Michael C. Hall's stale lines penned by hacks offer up no satisfying resolution, merely a narration of what we're watching with no guidance as to why. 

I've heard some critics decry the finale of Dexter as "a disaster," and although I don't think it was quite that bad, it was extremely disappointing. He deserved a better send-off. 

Now, let's contrast that with the end of Breaking Bad, which was, in my opinion, nearly perfect. 

Breaking Bad is, without a doubt, the best television show I've ever watched, and probably one of the best dramas in TV history. The expectations from the public at large were stacked, and the pressure to deliver must have been unbearable for the creators--it was Vince Gilligan's game to lose. Maintaining the level of quality all the way up to the end is a feat in and of itself; the fact that it also worked so naturally is a testament to the genius of the people involved. 

Walter, disgraced and living alone in New Hampshire, realizes he has one more play up his sleeve, his final chance at redemption. He travels back to Albuquerque, coerces his former partners-in-science to set up a trust fund for his son (thus performing the impossible, as it seemed up until now that all his work had been for naught), then eliminates everyone remaining in the meth empire he helped create, freeing his family from the clutches of assassins and the DEA, and freeing Jesse from the confines of his prison. Old, tired, weary, bleeding from the gut, Walter finally collapses in the lab in the desert as the cops roll in. 

This image resonates with us because every action that he takes, and every scene that unfolds in this final episode, is a logical result of everything that has come before. There are no revelatory twists, no punches pulled by the writer (who, it is important to note, is also the show's creator and has been in control since the beginning), because that would be unfair. It would be unfair to the rules that this universe Gilligan created revolves around: choices have consequences, the good guys don't always win, there are no happy endings. The fight for ultimate control, as displayed by both Walter and his brother-in-law Hank, will be your undoing. Although every hanging plot thread was ostensibly wrapped up by the final scene, the genius here is that everything is not fine, all is not well, and it can't be. Skyler and Flynn are never going to be able to shake what has happened to them, just as Jesse will not. Walter became, enjoyed being, and ultimately died as a monster. This is beautifully revealed in the scene with him and Skyler in the kitchen when he tells her (as the audience by now should already know) "I did it for me." It stands to reason, therefore, that this journey should end where it began: with methamphetamine. Most writers attempt to create an 'arc' for their characters, if they're deep and complex enough. Walter White, however, was so perfectly rendered in this show, that his arc almost more closely resembles a circle. He is perfectly round. 

I've heard some people complain that the end of Breaking Bad was boring, too predictable, not enough 'slam-bang.' What these people fail to comprehend is that this show ended the way it did because it had to. To attempt anything more would have been disingenuous. The events of this series, although certainly larger-than-life and hard to believe, have always been so engaging and compelling, from the very start, because they arose organically from the choices and consequences of frighteningly realistic characters. This is what real drama is all about. Breaking Bad nailed it. 

The only thing to be upset about here is the realization that a show like Breaking Bad is not likely to come around again this generation. I count myself lucky that I've been on board since the beginning and got to experience the birth, growth, and end of a cultural phenomenon. 

Anyway, I could go on and on here, so to avoid the risk of sounding repetitive, I'll end it here. I've gotten (most of) it off my chest. 

This Waking Life, Pt. III

“Wait, what?”

            A horrible realization began to sink into Michael’s bones. I’m dead, I’m dead, I died and now I’m trapped here. Oh God, help me. Please let me wake up.

            “I’m here Michael. Be calm, my son.”

            Mikey looked up and met those eyes, full of benevolence and warmth. No, it can’t be.

            “It can, and is. Believe it very well.”

            “I must be dreaming.”

            “And yet, even now, you know deep down it isn’t true. Don’t you?”

            The man (He is not a man) was right. Mikey wasn’t dreaming, he was perfectly awake. If not exactly here. He wasn’t sure where or if he was at the moment. Am I dead? He tried to ponder the implications of this and his head spun.

            “Try to relax, don’t let the intricacies and metaphysical questions of your situation cloud your judgment.”

            “How can you say that? What the fuck is going on here?”

            He sighed. “I suppose it is time I tried to answer some of your questions. Ask, and I shall attempt to accommodate.”

            “Who are you?”

            “I have many and more names. You may call me whatever you like, whatever is most convenient.”

            The word hanged precariously on his lips, trembled slightly before falling out. “God.”

            “Yes,” he answered simply.

            “Why am I here?” Michael no longer felt comfortable. There was no pain, but he was filled with dread and uncertainty. “What is this place?”

            “Think of it as a way-station. This place resides between two realms, the one you inhabit, and mine own. You are here because we must palaver.”

            We what? Tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to force them down. He chose his next words very carefully. “I…I’m sorry.”

            “There is no need.”

            “I never believed…”

            “Hush, now. All is well. And you are forgiven.”

            “Just like that?” How does that work?

            “Belief and conviction are complicated things, Michael. Your faith was weak, admittedly, but you never outright denied me.”

            “I was always told about sin…something unforgiveable—“

            “Please, son, there is no need to paraphrase a book.” He grinned slyly at this, the first time Michael had seen him do so. “It’s more a set of guidelines, anyway. And it was so long ago…” He waved a hand. “Like I said, the more questions you ask, the more confusing this will get. Try to keep it simple. I am here, and so are you. That is all that matters now.”

            Michael relaxed a little. He began to feel somewhat at ease. But I have so many more questions…Elizabeth.

            “She is fine, like I said.”

            “What about me? Am I fine?”

            Michael could sense hesitation in His voice. “Not strictly speaking. But that’s why you are here.”

            “Why?” I’m still so confused.

            “I want to give you a second chance.”

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Elizabeth hovered over Michael’s body. Exactly ninety-six seconds had passed since the driver had struck him, and he hadn’t moved a single time. The driver of the car stood jabbering into his cell phone, worriedly relaying information to 911.

            “Is he breathing?” The man turned to ask, eyes wide, frantic.

            Elizabeth looked up, tears streaming down her face, and shook her head.

            “No, he isn’t breathing…”

            Silently, Elizabeth began to pray.

“So, are you a man?” Michael asked. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had woken up, it could have been a few moments, it could have been an hour. “You look like a man.”

            “Neither. This is the form I choose to appear in, as it seems to be the easiest to accept. It is merely an illusion.”

            “Are you really everywhere, like all at once?” He began to feel excited. He couldn’t believe he was actually speaking to a divine being… “Are there more of you? Or are you like, the only one?”

            “I employ many in my service, but I am, as you say, the only one.” He answered all of Mikey’s questions patiently and quietly. Suddenly he looked away, eyes widening slightly, then narrowing, as if he had heard something from far off, but they were all alone.

            “What is it?” Michael asked.

            He didn’t answer for a moment. “We should really hurry this along, Michael,” he finally said. He sounded almost sad. “We don’t have all the time in the world.”

            Michael nodded, thinking. “Wait, how long have I been dead? There’s still so much I want to ask.”

            “Time passes differently here, but it still moves. I wish I could answer all of your questions, but please…”

            “What is the meaning of life?”

            His lips twitched. “Life is what you make it.” He seemed weary, and Michael got the impression he had answered this question thousands of times before.

            “But why are we here? What is our purpose?”

            “I said to keep the metaphysical questions to a minimum, child.”

            Michael frowned. That doesn’t seem fair. “Okay, so why am I here right now? You said something about a second chance.”

            “You’re here because your life was cut down in its prime. If it pleases you to know, the man who killed you was…texting and driving.” He normally was calm and reserved, but now he sounded bitter. “Not one of mankind’s better ideas.”

            “And Elizabeth? Where is she?”

            “Right now? Mourning.”

            Michael felt like he might cry again. He swallowed hard. “How do I get back?”

            He held up a hand. “Slow down. You’ve asked me many questions, now it’s my turn. Tell me, Michael,” He said, voice solemn, “why do you see fit to take the life, the one I so graciously gave you, and throw it away?”

            At this, Michael was shocked. He hadn’t expected the subject to come up. For a minute he said nothing, pondering what he could possibly say to Him, what excuse he could come up with. Finally, he settled on blunt honesty. “Because I was sad. I am so sad. But you already know that, don’t you?”

            He nodded. “Yes, I know. But millions of people all over the world are sad, and they do not contemplate ending their lives. That, Michael, is unforgiveable.”

            This isn’t fair. “How about you tell me, huh? Why am I so sad? Aren’t you supposed to be all-knowing?”

            He ignored Michael’s insolence. “You suffer from a severe chemical imbalance.”

            Michael stared. “That’s it?  That’s all you have to say? What about all the suffering out there? Why do you allow it?”

            “Life is suffering, Michael. You find a way through it.”

            “Yeah? What about the people who don’t? I’m hardly the first person to contemplate suicide.”

            Suddenly His voice turned grave. “They no longer enjoy my blessing.”

            Michael leaned back. He suddenly felt very tired. “Well maybe it’s not my fault. You think I want to be depressed? Suicidal? No. I didn’t ask for this.”

            “Didn’t you though?” He challenged. “Tell me true, Michael Acuesta, would it really hurt your feelings that badly if I didn’t let you go back? Isn’t this what you wanted? There was no pain, was there? You just woke up here. And you can continue on. You can leave all that pain and suffering behind, just like you wanted. You don’t have to go back.”

            Michael’s eyes widened. No. “No. This isn’t fair. Don’t say that to me.”

            “Like I said, I want to give you a second chance. But ask yourself, do you want a second chance?”

            “Why does it have to be that way though? Why do people have to suffer? I thought you were a merciful God. Now it seems like you’re torturing me. And what made you decide to turn up now, of all times? What about all the other times I needed you? Where were you when I was bleeding in the bathtub, sobbing my eyes out?” Michael’s voice began to rise to a fury. His eyes watered up. “Where were you when I laid in bed, praying never to wake up again? Where the fuck have you been, huh?”

            “You think I haven’t helped!” He shouted. The room visibly darkened.

            Michael recoiled.

            “How dare you? You think you have been alone all this time? What about her?” And he pointed at the wall, where a window suddenly appeared.

            Michael got up and crossed the room. Through it, he could see himself lying on the pavement, sun shining brightly…and Elizabeth hunched over him, sobbing into her hands. She looked helpless. “Elizabeth,” he breathed out.

            “Yes,” the man with the gray eyes said. “Elizabeth. One of those in my employ. Has she not been with you this entire way?”

            Now the tears came unbidden, welling up to the surface and spilling over. “What are you saying?”

            “She’s an angel, Michael. And I sent her to help you.”

            Michael looked on, longing to shout out to her, but somehow he knew she wouldn’t be able to hear him. A moment passed, and he realized what he had to do. “I want to go back,” he said firmly.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes. I love her. I’ve never loved anything so fiercely as her.” He met his maker, and looked him in the eye. “Thank you. I never knew.”

            The room brightened again. The man smiled, and shook his head. “No thanks necessary, Michael. Just remember. Life is a precious gift. Don’t throw it away. And don’t forget there’s always someone looking out for you.” And with that, he placed a hand on Michael’s forehead. “Close your eyes.”

There was no pain.

He dreamed he was falling through a dark, endless void, but the void held no fear for him. There was a light beneath him, and it called out to him. He swam toward it.

When he awoke, he could feel a faint warm tingling sensation crawling across his skin. The sun beat down from above, blinding him. Michael raised a hand to shield his eyes and slowly sat up.

And then there was pain. Unimaginable pain. He laid back down.

He became aware of Elizabeth, and then sights and sounds made themselves known to him. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance, creeping closer. Elizabeth was crying and saying his name. He turned his head and looked into her eyes. Her head moved in front of the sun.

“Michael? Michael! Are you okay?”

He tried to move and couldn’t. Everything hurt. He realized he was lying in a pool of blood. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, and coughed. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and his chest erupted in a fresh wave of pain when he inhaled.

“Oh my God, please let him be okay.”

Suddenly the sirens were upon them, and Elizabeth looked away for a second. “Don’t worry Michael, the ambulance is here. You’re going to be okay. Stay with me.”

Michael forced himself to smile, and took a slow, shaky breath. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. The words took an immense amount of effort, but he had to let her know. “I promise.”

This Waking Life, Pt. II

“Is that all you remember?” The man with the gray eyes looked at him inquisitively.

            “I can’t remember what happened next…” Michael trailed off. “Where am I? What is this?”

            “Understanding will come soon enough.” He uncrossed his legs, then re-crossed them on the other side. “Let me assure you, you are in a safe place where nothing can hurt you. I mean you no harm.”

            Somehow, Michael knew he was telling the truth. The voice lulled him into feeling secure. He couldn’t explain why or how, but the man sitting in front of him didn’t seem threatening in the least, and exuded only benevolence. His instincts perpetually tried to tell him he was dreaming. He couldn’t be sure. All he knew is he wasn’t afraid.

            “You love her,” he said matter-of-factly.

            “Yes,” Michael replied with no hesitation. “Is she here too? When can I see her again?”

            “No, and that’s to be determined. You have many questions Michael, and I am eager to answer them, but first you need to remember the rest.”

            “Why? What’s going on here?”

            “Time is short.”

            Michael sighed and closed his eyes again, trying to fill the gaps in his memory between then and now.

He could remember the heat refusing to dissipate. He could remember his mom calling him to tell him she was working late. He could remember being excited that he had extra time to spend with Elizabeth, just the two of them in his bed. He could remember crying in her arms after they made love, the way she held him—nonjudgmental and patient and caring.

            It was embarrassing and it made him feel weak, but he could not help it. There was a distinct sensation of being trapped in a very small box, with small windows etched on the sides where people could look in and laugh. But Elizabeth didn’t laugh, she didn’t blush and look away. She didn’t make him feel like a freak.

            Michael supposed love was like that, though.

            That’s what kept him going, putting one foot in front of the other, forging through each day despite the immense psychic pain that threatened to cripple him: her undying affection and unwavering devotion to him. It was inspiring, in a way. Like being constantly surrounded by a swarm of angry bats, Elizabeth was the light that drove the pestilence away. He could count on her, and she could count on him as long as they were together, and it was that mutual confidence that provided the pillar Michael leaned on in times of despair. Even though he was terrified of losing her (and nothing would soothe that fear, no matter how irrational it was, it persisted on and on), he managed to get through each day by reminding himself that there was one thing worth living for.

            So he forged on.

            He reminded himself of it when he woke up. He reminded himself of it when he stood in the shower, barely noticing the water as it assailed his skin and fell earthward. He reminded himself of it when he ate, nearly numb to the pleasures of taste. He reminded himself of it when he masturbated grimly, conjuring up images of her and memories of their time together, feeling as though he were ascending from some unholy abyss, only to collapse back into misery after his climax.

            He had always heard that suicide was a coward’s way out—a selfish act of commiseration only chosen by the timid and faint of heart. He didn’t feel that way though. Ever since he had first cut himself, suicide terrified him greatly. Bleeding hurt, and he could only imagine that bleeding to death would hurt even more. In his mind, suicide was an act of supreme courage, reserved only for those with the inner strength and fortitude to see it out. Whether this was foolishness didn’t occur to him, it was simply what he believed. It was probably this thought working in tandem with his fierce devotion to never let his girlfriend down that prevented him from crossing that threshold into everlasting night. Terrible nightmares of drowning, of trying without purchase to claw his way to the surface, plagued him at night. In his dreams, Elizabeth was always standing at the shore, arm outstretched, but he could not reach her.

            He was also deathly afraid of the other side. What laid beyond after death. Michael was by no means a religious man, but he considered himself to be spiritual. He was not an atheist, but he did not believe in a God that intervened in the affairs of men, and as such he never felt any need to pray. It could be said his belief was nominal, lacking any sort of practical application to daily life. He clung to the hope of a higher power simply because the alternative was too scary to think about. He did not understand how other people went about their lives knowing how insignificant they were. The thought of aimlessly floating through space, a speck in the universal spectrum, was too much to bear. Whatever was in store, be it heaven or hell, or an eternity of nothingness, or reincarnation, Michael was in no hurry to find out.

            Now he could remember rolling over onto his stomach, snuffing out a cigarette in an ashtray sitting on his nightstand. The evening sun was just beginning to touch the horizon, placing it eye-level with the open window. Elizabeth lay beside him, still. They had not left the room in hours. Michael was in heaven.

            “Promise me you’ll stop.” She shattered the silence.

            “What?”

            “You know what I’m talking about.” Her hair spilled around her shoulders as she sat up. “Michael Acuesta. Listen to me. If it’s this bad, you need to get help. This,” she looked around the room, gesturing with one hand, “this is nice and all. I like spending time with you like this. But our discussion earlier…nothing’s changed. You have to do something.”

            Michael wondered a moment. The tone in her voice was no-bullshit. “What keeps you going?” he asked finally. “I mean, this life…how do you carry on?”

            “You think things aren’t rough for me too?”

            “That’s not what I meant.”

            She sighed. “You, silly.” Her eyes pierced his. “You keep me going. You think you’re a burden on me, don’t you?”

            He nodded.

            “Well, that’s not true. The truth is that I want to be there for you. It gives me a reason. I’m afraid of the future too, we all are. But I know I have you. And you have me.”

            His heart swelled. He thought for a moment, rubbed his eyes. “I guess I’m not the ideal boyfriend though, huh?”

            “What’s ideal about any of this?” She shook her head. “But it’s all I want for now.”

            “What about later?”

            She turned toward him, took his face in her hands. “Just be here with me, Mikey. Stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.”

            “What?”

            “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to stress yourself out again. I won’t let you. Just enjoy this moment with me. Hold onto it. Let the future be in the future, and focus on the now.”

            “Okay.”

            She laid back down and yawned, stretched like a cat. “Don’t you have to get the mail?”

            “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.”

            And so it was, as Michael walked off the curb onto the street to open his mailbox, that a sedan traveling approximately forty-one miles per hour struck him and killed him on the spot.

“Wait, what?”

This Waking Life

There was no pain.

            He dreamed he was falling through a dark, endless void, but the void held no fear for him. Time was imperceptible here; it could have been only a brief moment or an eternity. He was comfortable and safe. Nothing could harm him.

            When he awoke, he could feel a faint warm tingling sensation crawling across his skin. The transition from sleep to consciousness was smooth and barely noticeable: one minute he was falling and the next he was lying on a soft cot, surrounded by a brilliant white light that seemed to emanate from nowhere. There were four solid walls that looked like alabaster, polished to a high shine and smooth. A silver chair sat in one corner. The room was otherwise featureless.

            A door on the wall opposite him he had not noticed before slowly opened and a tall, chiseled man with gray hair and cold gray eyes entered. A kind of benign air preceded him, seemed to ooze from him. “Michael,” the man said.

            Am I dreaming? Michael wondered, and realized he had spoken aloud.

            “No,” the man replied. His voice was soft and mellifluous, and somehow put Michael at ease.

            “How do you know my name?”

            “I know much and more.”

            “Where am I?” Michael sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Every muscle in his body felt relaxed. It was a feeling he could scarcely put into words but was ultimately blissful. “This isn’t my house.”

            “Are you afraid?”

            Michael paused and wondered for a moment. “No,” he finally replied. “This has to be a dream.”

            “You may think of it that way if you wish.”

            “What does that mean?” He was clad in a small white undershirt and white shorts, clothes that were not his own.

            “It will be made clear in time.”

            Michael ran a hand through his curly black hair. “Where am I, then?”

            “So many questions. That is understandable.”

            “Answer me,” he implored, beginning to feel frustrated.

            “Even if I told you, you would not believe. Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

            Memories of pain and anguish leapt up unbidden to lap at the shores of his mind. Detached sensations of fear and despair. His head was clouded in a thick fog. “I don’t know.” He felt confused, but he was still at ease. The bizarre notion that he was not awake would not leave. He had never felt so relaxed in all his life.

            The man pulled up the chair and sat down, crossing his legs. “Try harder.”

            Michael closed his eyes. The warm sensation spread throughout his bones, began to envelop him. The light pressed against his eyelids and began to burn brighter. A picture resolved itself in his mind. A bright star burned above him. Everything was brightness, blinding him.

            “What do you see?”

            “The sun.” And just like that, the fog began to dissipate.

            “Keep going.”

Michael rolled over and thrust himself deep inside his girlfriend.

            Elizabeth arched her back and moaned, “Oh, Mikey.”

            He loved it when she said his name like that. He leaned down to engulf her mouth, their tongues desperately scrambling for purchase. The sun poured in through his open bedroom window, glistening off his milky brown skin. Nails now dug into that skin, scraping down his back. “Ouch,” he said, biting off her kiss with a grin.

            An hour later found them both lying on their backs, drenched in sweat, in the throes of young love. The heat was unbelievable, and Michael’s mother had refused to turn on the air conditioner. Today was their one-year anniversary, and most of his classmates hadn’t thought it would last this long. Eighteen wasn’t exactly the most forward-thinking age, but somehow Michael and Elizabeth had made it last.

            “When will your mom be home?” Elizabeth asked.

            Michael spread his legs and stretched out, basking in the afterglow. “Relax, we still have time.”

            “You want to go again?” Her small breasts heaved with each breath.

            “No way, I’m spent. Don’t you have homework?”

            “It can wait,” she said and leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

            They both rose and slowly dressed, then sat back down on the bed. Michael lit a cigarette, which they passed back and forth, each taking a couple drags at a time. “Should we be smoking indoors?” she asked.

            “You worry too much, babe.” He stretched his arm out and handed her the cigarette.

            She grasped his wrist, noticing the marks on his arm. Hesitation marks. “Michael, again?”

            His cheeks flushed and he pulled his arm away, averting his gaze. “They’re old.”

            “You’re a poor liar.”

            No response.

            “Mikey, honey, I thought we talked about this. You said you were going to see a doctor. How do you think this makes me feel? How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

            Another silence. They both sat there, feeling awkward, smoke hanging lazily in the air. Not a breeze stirred. “My mom can’t know,” he finally said.

            “I never said I was going to tell her. But you have to do something. You need to get help.”

            “What if they lock me up? What if they take me away from you?” he asked, his voice suddenly full of dread.

            Always the voice of reason, Elizabeth snapped back, “Don’t you think I’m a little afraid of losing you too? If you really love me, you’ll tell someone. Every time you…you do this, it’s like,” her voice choked off, “it’s like you’re cutting into me too.”

            Michael twirled a piece of his hair through his fingers as he pondered this. Elizabeth was right; he had been battling a great depression for almost a year now, but now it was escalating. The self-harming had started right after school ended. Unlike most of his classmates, Michael hadn’t been ready to graduate. He was afraid of the real world, of being an adult. He didn’t have any skills to speak of, hadn’t applied to any schools. Ostensibly speaking, he had no future.

            That is what scared him the most. When Michael tried to look ahead, to see into his own future, all he saw was a deep, bottomless pit. It was black and foreboding. The only thing that kept him tethered to reality was Elizabeth. She was his rock, his lighthouse, the one bright thing in his otherwise dismal life. She didn’t understand his depression, but she had been there for him through the worst of times, and she hadn’t left him. Not even once. Michael couldn’t begin to fathom the pressure it put on her, to have her weather such a constant storm, and he loved her all the more for it.

            He rolled over and looked into her eyes, pleading and desperate. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.” It was all he could come up with.

           “I’m not going anywhere, Mikey. And neither are you.” She leaned in and their lips met, and before he knew it they were rolling around on top of each other again, clothes shed, their sighs and smells mingling with the hot summer air that filled the room, which slowly rose up before escaping out the open window, lost on a breeze. 

Enter the Matrix

My introduction to The Matrix was not by way of the film itself, but rather the film's soundtrack.

The summer of 1999 was winding to an end, and I was nearing my 8th birthday. Anticipation whetted my nerves, I could almost taste the number itself, encroaching on me at an excruciatingly slow pace. I wanted what every seven year old boy wanted: to turn a year older.

The other thing I remember wanting the most, nearly as badly, and all the more urgently, was to see The Matrix. As I ran and swung and jumped and played outside, enjoying the cooling weather and long nights, I can remember hearing music playing from one of the second story windows on the back of my parent's house. My older sister, then freshly turned sixteen, had purchased the soundtrack to The Matrix and frequently played it on her stereo with the window open, and the sounds drifted down toward me in my youthful exercise. Sounds of Rob Zombie, Deftones, Prodigy, Marilyn Manson and Rammstein filled my ears, foreign invaders that I did not yet recognize or know well enough (let alone foresee that they would later be artists I listened to regularly and enjoyed) but titillated me and aroused the senses. This music was hard and heavy and somehow intrinsically for adults. It felt forbidden, so it was naturally attractive.

The Matrix was my introduction into a world of hard rock, hormones, confusion and excitement that would later define my teenage years. As the soundtrack pumped in my head at all hours (inevitably keeping me awake at night, sometimes tapping my foot under the sheets), I began to feel curious about this music and where it came from. I asked my sister one day "What is this?"

"Music from The Matrix," she replied.

"What is The Matrix?"

"An awesome movie that you're too young to watch," was her response.

This infuriated me. I was determined to see this movie. I began seeing trailers for the film on television (as it was just now coming out on home video) and I had no idea what they represented. I could not tease out the meaning of this film, what it was about, or what happened in it. All I knew was I had to see it. There were guns, action, loud music, and kung fu. It was like a wet dream. And indeed I did dream about it. I distinctly remember having at least one nocturnal excursion into this world that I had made up in my head, where action replaced the boredom and tediousness of daily life, and heroes were worshiped. I dreamed of watching this movie and loving it unconditionally. It began to feel like a close friend that I sorely missed.

One weekend my grandmother brought me to her house for a visit, and in the course of my usual merriment in her basement of toys, television, and computer games, she proposed we hit up the local video store and watch a movie. My heart skipped a beat. Now was my chance! I could finally see The Matrix. We browsed the aisles of the store, as she picked up movies at random, but I paid no mind to her suggestions. I was on a mission, a warpath. I wanted one thing and one thing only. Finally I found it. The cover itself screamed cool. All cool blue and grey-toned color scheme, badass dude with sunglasses in the middle gripping an assault rifle, the title all jagged in digital-techno lettering that seemed to sum up my fascination with computers and hacking as America transitioned into a new age, just as I too was being immersed in this world of technology. The Matrix appealed to me in every conceivable way; it seemed to arouse all five senses, stimulated me almost spiritually or sexually.

I showed it to my grandmother, who summarily dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "No way, Kevin. Too violent," she said.

I was crushed. Infuriated. Moved near to tears. As I was ushered toward the front door, mediocre movies in hand, I took one last glance behind me and longed for what was rapidly moving out of my grasp. It seemed like I would never get to watch this film. Adulthood could not come fast enough. Then I'd be able to watch whatever I wanted, when I wanted!

*

I did finally see The Matrix, although it was nearly another month. My sister picked it up for me in secret, I watched it huddled close to the television in my living room, eyes glued to the screen. I could not comprehend what I was seeing, watching it for the first time. I had little to no idea what was going on, what the plot was trying to communicate, and absolutely no clue what the themes of the movie represented or what it was trying to say. All I knew was it had action. 

And oh boy, was the action glorious. 

I loved it, lapped it up, couldn't get enough of it. I was a fuckin' action junkie, hooked from that point on. I re-enacted scenes in my bedroom, jumping around and diving onto my bed, arms outstretched, miming shooting pistols in slow motion. 

More than halfway through the film, what I remember most clearly was seeing the scene in the elevator lobby where Neo and Trinity take down a group of armored guards and rip the place apart, before ascending higher into the building and detonating a bomb on the floors below. This was the moment I fell in love with cinema, head over heels fucking enamored with movies and what they could do, what they could stimulate inside me. Levels of excitement and pleasure previously unknown and normally reserved for the most carnal acts washed over me as I devoured that scene over and over, the climax coming when Neo dodges the bullets the agent fires at him in slow motion, arms outstretched, grimace on his face. I wanted so desperately to be this guy, to do the things he could. I wanted to escape the confines of my reality and live out my most wild fantasies. The Matrix opened all these doors and more within my mind, my imagination running amok. 

I still know every frame, every beat, every bullet, every nuance of that scene by heart. The rest of the film from that point onward only sustained my orgasm every time I watched it. It was like being transported into a world of bliss that I could not have even imagined yet in my short life. 

I cannot count how many times I've seen The Matrix since then. It instantly became and still remains to this day my favorite film of all time. As I grew into an adult, my taste expanded, my interests changed, I became more acquainted with the world and slowly but surely transitioned into and through puberty, and as I type this I am now twenty-one years of age, a man by any definition, but my love for The Matrix has not changed. I celebrate the entire trilogy, and can recall when I saved up enough money to buy all the films on blu-ray. I've seen every second of bonus material on those discs, they are stored in the special vault in my heart reserved just for The Matrix. Watching the film now is more like a ritual, but I do not feel as though I am going through the paces. It is like visiting an old friend, catching up, reminiscing on the good old days, kicking back a few beers. It can transport me from any state of mind back to childhood, innocence, ignorance, and bliss captured magnificently in my memory. It is a classic. It will not age, just as the boy playing outside on the swings, listening to heavy music, seeing above the neighbor's fence and beyond as he careens out, will never age, bound to that brief spot in time for eternity. 

It's Not Safe to Swim Today

Leaving my side of town again for some new destination, some new place to call home, is as frightening as anything I’ve done in the past year. Since the last time I left home.
Again.

And again.

I can’t remember the last time I laid down roots and felt comfortable enough to call that place home since high school, or even before. And that’s the most distressing feeling I have right now. An extreme lack of sense of place and permanence and comfort and security. These are necessary things for a happy productive life. Which now seems farther and farther from my grasp. Apparently I’m not good enough anywhere.

I may not be the most industrious person in the world, Lord knows, but I did not fail to pull enough weight. I may not be the nicest person in the world, Lord knows, or the easiest to constantly get along with, but I did not fail to make friends. So now, in the wake of severe boredom and a feeling distinctly like spiraling through a void, given all this time to contemplate, I now ask myself the inevitable question of where exactly I went wrong. Of course, just as natural as the question itself is, so too is the answer naturally lent to it: and that is that there isn’t one. Lack of answers. Lack of place. Lack of permanence. I suppose it’s true that the only constant in life is change, but I’m not getting any better at dealing with the changes. There is something, that seems to me, inherently unnatural about being bounced from place to place so often. If you had told me, back when I was a teenager, or even a bright-eyed youngster, free and innocent and in place and permanent, that this is what your twenties are like, I would have told you to put me in an electric chair and fry me after my nineteenth birthday.

Because this is stupid.

That’s the only word for it. No poetry here, no sublime misdirection or flight of fancy vocab, just plain old fucking stupidity. Other people aren’t like this. What did I do to deserve it? I swear, by gods, one day I will find whoever dealt me this hand and their death shall not be swift. I will exact my vengeance slowly. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and so I shall wait. Patient and brooding, like the phantom of the proverbial opera, until the stage is set and I can give all these fuckers their what for.

Failure, it would seem, is also the new constant in my life. I cannot point to a single act I committed over the past twelve months and say with any certainty that it was, or even vaguely resembles, an accomplishment. That it was something I completed and did well. Remember back in grade school when the teacher would grade us with an S or a U? I’d even settle for satisfactory. As in, not stellar, and not above nor beyond, but merely passable, acceptable. I haven’t had that in so long.

Let’s connect the dots in this abysmal wreck I once called a Plan of Action:

Move to Indiana. Get a job. Work over the summer. Go to school. Make good grades. Successfully transition to my new house. Rinse and repeat.

Check. Check. Failed. Check. Failed. Failed. We’re 50/50 so far, and it doesn’t get much better when you throw in all the unforeseen variables. Have a nervous breakdown: check. End up homeless. Twice. Check. Wow, look at you buddy.

And now, in the midst of this smoking disasterscene, I’m being bombarded by requests and importations to flee back to the southwest, into the arms of…I don’t know. Security? Maybe. Success? Possibly. With enough work. But happiness? Fulfillment? No. Most certainly not. Maybe I’m not capable of being happy yet, maybe I haven’t learned how. But some inexorable force, some unnamed element, some divine tugging, some unexplainable cosmic power keeps me tethered to Indiana. I cannot leave her. She is my Mecca and Medina, my Plymouth Rock, my beacon, my lighthouse, my shelter from the storm that is my life. And make no mistake, these waters are not calm. They are treacherous and filled with peril. Batten down the hatches, men.

We’re in for the long haul.

P.S.

Fuck you.