Flower Water Will Eventually Smell of Piss

You stepped on an ant one too many times without regret.

When you were eleven, you shot a bird (you can't even recall what kind) out of the old, mossy oak tree in the front yard.

You're pretty sure it died.

When you were twelve, you betrayed their trust. Just because they left you keys to the house doesn't mean you can pretend you're moving the sprinklers and then look at the old guy's Hustler magazines.

You think it's funny that his name was Dick.

Back massagers are not meant for little prepubescent penises.

At thirty, you are no better. You are still a bastard.

No, you are a dick.

You like to look at gory photos too long (whenever they are available). Your favorite is on B-2. Some fat guy in the Philippines ran his crotch rocket into a lamppost at top speed. Three separate blobs of yellow cottage cheese flanked a sewage drain.

[Blood and white matter dripped over the grating and was carried for blocks down the boulevard after the next rain.]

On the way to get a cup of coffee, you think about kicking pit-bulls in their bulbous, tight nutsacks.

Later, you talk to a dog of a different color, but of the same breed.

Save the fake happy voice for when it really counts. My jaws will lock on your wrist and make the sound of cows chewing a mixture of gravel and grass.

Bastard.