turnout. As it infact turned out, none of those people came to either show, and I looked for their types in the audience really fucking hard. I even sniffed the air a few times from the stage hoping to get a whiff of that sad aftershave scent I’d been bombarded with in that club. No dice. So I was subjected to repugnance on a molecular level, which assaulted every sense I came equipped with, for absolutely no good goddamn reason whatsoever. I remain convinced that a chunk of my dignity stayed behind and died a terrifying and unpleasant death deep in the leathery cushioned bowels that night. At the very least it fled the scene, concerned that this type of punishment might be thrust upon it again, and no amount of photos on milk cartons or any poignant vignettes on
Unsolved Mysteries
will ever bring it back to Daddy. And it’s all because of that club.
That fucking club …
I was there for two damn hours.
Fuck …
I guess I shouldn’t bitch too much. I mean, after all, if this is what people are comfortable and happy wearing, then who am I to judge? That all makes sense—it really does. But I’m really good at tearing shit asunder. People ask me why I don’t have my own reality show. It’s because I would be sued within seconds of the first episode for defamation of character. I just don’t give a shit. When I see something that’s stupid, I say something. No one is safe—I look in the mirror and attack myself every morning. I have a system: wipe the eye boogers out from the corners, pick up and load the toothbrush with Crest, call myself a foul-mouthed cocksucker, brush, spit, and floss. I like routine. And you have to agree that some of the shit these people wear is pretty silly. I saw a singer in a band—I won’t name which one, but it’s the same one who cries after sex every time—wearing a trench coat that onlyhad one arm. Make no mistake, I
stared
at that motherfucker. I asked him whether he’d done that himself—you know, to be different. Nope—he paid a designer WAY TOO MUCH MONEY to do it
for
him. The whole time I just kept saying the same thing in my head: Who do you think you are, fucking Neo? Go back to the Matrix … and fuck yourself while you’re at it. I’d tell you who it was, but that fucking guy
would
sue me in a redheaded heartbeat. But if you’re savvy, there’s a clue in this book to whom it was. If you guess it correctly, hit me up on Twitter: @Corey TaylorRock. You will win … fuck all.
Sometimes fashion does make things easier. There’s no painful guesswork in school about which crowd you’re going to hang out with—you look for the appropriate look. You can tell the grits from the preps from the geeks from the artists. You can find the Jocks among the goths, the heshers, the cheerleaders, and the glee folk. When you’re young and just trying to find your place in the crowd, sometimes having that extra visual as a heads-up is worth its weight in fool’s gold. In the long run it might cause more pain than pleasure, but most of us just want to get through it so real life can start. It’s a lot like a minimum-security jailhouse: you just want to do your time, get out, and get on with it. Besides, we all know that most of the cool clothing in high school is just a costume, a pseudo-camouflage designed to help you blend in to the rest of your surroundings. But some people need the rockets’ red glare—those outfits that burn white hot in the moment only to be severely dated upon inspection of yearbooks at the reunion.
“Jesus Christ, Kelly! Is that you in study hall wearing Uggs and a sweater vest? What were you
thinking
?”
“Shut up, Jesse! Where is it? …
Yeah
! Here’s one of you in a cashmere jumper with meat cleaver earrings! Don’t think for a
second
that this was
ever
cool!”
I’d keep going with that exchange, but bile has filled the back of my throat and I don’t like that, so I’m stopping.
Superiority and confidence: these two forces of human
Unsolved Mysteries
will ever bring it back to Daddy. And it’s all because of that club.
That fucking club …
I was there for two damn hours.
Fuck …
I guess I shouldn’t bitch too much. I mean, after all, if this is what people are comfortable and happy wearing, then who am I to judge? That all makes sense—it really does. But I’m really good at tearing shit asunder. People ask me why I don’t have my own reality show. It’s because I would be sued within seconds of the first episode for defamation of character. I just don’t give a shit. When I see something that’s stupid, I say something. No one is safe—I look in the mirror and attack myself every morning. I have a system: wipe the eye boogers out from the corners, pick up and load the toothbrush with Crest, call myself a foul-mouthed cocksucker, brush, spit, and floss. I like routine. And you have to agree that some of the shit these people wear is pretty silly. I saw a singer in a band—I won’t name which one, but it’s the same one who cries after sex every time—wearing a trench coat that onlyhad one arm. Make no mistake, I
stared
at that motherfucker. I asked him whether he’d done that himself—you know, to be different. Nope—he paid a designer WAY TOO MUCH MONEY to do it
for
him. The whole time I just kept saying the same thing in my head: Who do you think you are, fucking Neo? Go back to the Matrix … and fuck yourself while you’re at it. I’d tell you who it was, but that fucking guy
would
sue me in a redheaded heartbeat. But if you’re savvy, there’s a clue in this book to whom it was. If you guess it correctly, hit me up on Twitter: @Corey TaylorRock. You will win … fuck all.
Sometimes fashion does make things easier. There’s no painful guesswork in school about which crowd you’re going to hang out with—you look for the appropriate look. You can tell the grits from the preps from the geeks from the artists. You can find the Jocks among the goths, the heshers, the cheerleaders, and the glee folk. When you’re young and just trying to find your place in the crowd, sometimes having that extra visual as a heads-up is worth its weight in fool’s gold. In the long run it might cause more pain than pleasure, but most of us just want to get through it so real life can start. It’s a lot like a minimum-security jailhouse: you just want to do your time, get out, and get on with it. Besides, we all know that most of the cool clothing in high school is just a costume, a pseudo-camouflage designed to help you blend in to the rest of your surroundings. But some people need the rockets’ red glare—those outfits that burn white hot in the moment only to be severely dated upon inspection of yearbooks at the reunion.
“Jesus Christ, Kelly! Is that you in study hall wearing Uggs and a sweater vest? What were you
thinking
?”
“Shut up, Jesse! Where is it? …
Yeah
! Here’s one of you in a cashmere jumper with meat cleaver earrings! Don’t think for a
second
that this was
ever
cool!”
I’d keep going with that exchange, but bile has filled the back of my throat and I don’t like that, so I’m stopping.
Superiority and confidence: these two forces of human
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