Here’s what happened when I moved to Madison, WI in 1995: I rolled into town with most of my possessions in the trunk of a 1995 Lumina, a college graduation gift from my parents. I went to my friend Jeremy’s house where I was staying for a few days before my own apartment was vacant. Jeremy was out of town, but on his bed he’d left a copy of a newspaper called The Onion and a note: “Read this. I think you’ll like it.” I did. And I did. And now that feels like one of those moments when one’s destiny is, quietly, fixed.
I’d like to make one of those ‘It Gets Better’ ads for just dumpy, young guys. We could use a little help, a little encouragement, just somebody on T.V.: ‘Listen, man. I know it’s tough right now. You’re vaguely heavy with no face. You have zero value on the sexual marketplace. You feel invisible to the girls in school because you are. But it gets better. Because you all grow up, and you pretty much just look like this your whole life. And they don’t. Their options start running out really fast and you’re gonna be there. As long as you stay relatively employed and washed, you’re gonna be amazing in your 40s. You’re gonna be the branch she can grab before she hits the ground. It’s gonna be so great. It just takes time for her circumstances to match your looks, but it’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen. When real shit matters, you’re gonna be the sexiest motherfucker in the world.’
Per day, I would say I hate far more than I feel like I like something. I like my western omelet, but while I’m eating that there’s about 17 other things that I hate, like my apartment, my breath, whatever’s on the TV, whatever’s in the paper. Then I walk outside and it’ll be a nice day. Well that’s great that’s a good feeling for a split second and then I realize I hate my neighborhood, because I… you apparently can’t play music after 6:00 pm… in this country
—Coach McGuirk (via frliles)