Tag Archives: rant

Insane in the Membrane

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My therapist advises me against me using the term “mentally ill” to describe myself. He prefers that I say “I have a mental illness.” I understand his logic and intentions—he doesn’t want my identity to be defined by something about me that is broken. However, I can’t disagree more.  

Your teenage years are when you start to forge your identity and become the person you’ll be*. And it was then that I became two people. On one hand, I was a quirky, soulful, artistic, sensitive, and intense guy named Jeremiah. On the other hand, I was a creative, energetic, charming, and very, very confident guy named Jeremiah. The first Jeremiah hated himself with a searing passion, while the second Jeremiah didn’t give a shit about anybody other himself. I was the angel and the devil on my own shoulders, wondering how the other could be so pathetic/such a douchebag. 

And that begged the question, what the hell is wrong with me?  

Lately, I’ve been a big fan of a (mostly) weekly podcast called “Sex and Other Human Activities.” One of the hosts, Marcus Parks, said this about being how bipolar disorder works: “Whenever you’re depressive, you let your life fall apart. Whenever you’re manic, you actively destroy it. It’s a dangerous thing to fuck with.” 

Lots of people talk about the stigma of mental illness. When I hear it described that way, I imagine frightened crowds with pitchforks, torches, and legislation who want to lock up the crazies, or at the very least, not invite them to parties. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived a third of my life in the twenty-first century, but I’ve never seen this. What I’ve seen is a lot of confusion. 

For starters, there aren’t a whole lot of actual “crazy” people. The mentally ill that most expect to see are muttering to themselves about government conspiracies, telling the voices in their heads to shut up, murdering people in cold blood (maybe with a giggle), or—if Hollywood can be believed—helping the normal folks see the world through exciting new eyes.  

That’s the biggest reason those like me can feel isolated. We look just like everyone else. We act just like everyone else. It’s assumed, then, that we function just like everybody else. After all, everyone feels down sometimes, so why can’t I cope? Everybody has mood swings, so what’s the big deal about mine? I seemed fine yesterday, so why not remember that? Life is hard; everybody knows that. Depression, Attention-Deficit Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and even Asperger’s Syndrome are just words coined by those don’t want to own up to being assholes; they’re excuses people make because they’re too lazy to suck it up. 

I’ve spent a lot of my life believing all of this. In fact, I can’t shake the residual feeling that maybe I am just a lazy asshole. This is easy thought to have, both for me and for those around me, especially because I’m doing really well right now. I didn’t just “snap out of it,” though. I invest a lot of time and money and effort to be this way, and if I want to stay here, I can’t forget that, not even for a minute. 

As far as being an asshole is concerned, manic-depression is an explanation, not an excuse. What’s the difference? Perhaps getting drunk will give us some perspective. A lot of alcohol can give us a lot of confidence, but it can also take away some of our empathy. We do and say a lot of things that would not be said and done otherwise. Some of it is pretty shitty. And if we drink enough, we may not even remember it. These things, however, get done and said by us, and there’s no making them go away. If we get into a fight, or worse, run someone over with our car, it’s our sober ass going to jail. No one ever argues otherwise. Some people can hold their liquor, and some people can’t. Those of us that can’t have a responsibility to control ourselves, even though it can be incredibly difficult. 

So there’s that. As far as coping with life, I know full well that we all have it tough. Maybe I would be happier if I just counted my blessings. I want to. God, I want to. But I can’t. I am physically unable to … Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Sometimes I’m able to. Sometimes I’m not. Day to day, I don’t know what to expect. 

For example, I got mugged at gunpoint once, and for the duration, I thought I was going to die. When it was over, I walked home, called the police, called my girlfriend, had a cigarette, and shrugged off the money I’d lost as a small price to pay for not getting shot. On the other hand, I once watched a braindead-but-awesome action movie I’d seen a thousand times wherein a peripheral character loses his job and his home and dies alone on the streets. I spent weeks full of dread, convinced that this was my ultimate fate. I don’t really have any say in what it’s going to be. 

It goes like this: imagine you’re walking on a patch of ice. Strolling along at an even keel, there are no problems. Folks around you are walking at their own pace. The sun is shining and the birds are singing (shivering, but singing). Unexpectedly, you slip. You’re not sure why—maybe your mind wandered, maybe you caught your foot on a twig or a rock or something, or maybe the wind knocked you off balance. Regardless, you’re lying on your ass on the slick ice, bruised, and every attempt you make at getting back to your feet results in you falling down again. When you finally do get up, the panic fades, and you’re left with embarrassment, wondering why it is that you’re the only one who fell while everyone else can stumble without toppling over. (Answer: everyone is wearing cleats, and yours came out of the box defective.) 

And so now, even though I’m on a mood stabilizer and am exercising like a fiend and keeping up with regular counseling, and even though I feel better and younger than I ever have in my life, I am utterly terrified of feeling. I can’t trust my heart, because it has, in the past, knocked me down onto the ice. It doesn’t look like it, but trust me, it’s a handicap. Like a diabetic, I need take medicine and closely monitor myself if I want to function. Does that make me superior to those who don’t have to work as hard to get out of bed some days? Hell no.  

I can tell you this, though, I got off better than some. Some don’t respond to treatment at all. Some don’t even have the option to get help. Some people spend their whole lives (or, like me, most of it) not knowing that this is a problem with chemistry, not character. I’m lucky; I have insurance, a stubborn wife, and (after a fashion) a good, personally invested psychiatrist who wants to see me working properly. 

It’s not fair that I’m this way—in fact, it really sucks. I don’t know any other way to be. I just am. I’m mentally ill, with all that entails.  

And I’m doing okay. 

*I used the word start for a reason, Argumenty Pants (you know who you are) 

Playing Catsup

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When I woke up this morning, I found myself remembering one of the more profound statements I’ve ever heard in my life.  The most alarming thing about this profound statement is that it involves ketchup. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Oh, no! He’s gone back on drugs!” I assure you this is not the case. 

To fully appreciate the wisdom of this profound statement, I need to give you a brief history of modern ketchup delivery. 

It used to be that ketchup lived in glass bottles. I say this as though it was ancient history, but think about it: when was the last time you’ve tried to shake ketchup out of a glass bottle? Shaking the glass bottle, in fact, is why they have become an endangered species, and it’s for the best.  

Ketchup is not beer, or even Worcester sauce. It is really thick, and so it gets stuck easily. When it does, air bubbles form in the neck, and so you either have to yank your arm up and down and hope the stuff doesn’t explode all over your plate, or you have to stick your knife inside, and now your knife is dirty, and that probably didn’t help anyway. 

Plastic is a different story. It’s easy to think that plastic is plastic; it’s been that way since the dawn of time—or at least since it was invented. In reality the technology is evolving. Where once it was ugly and weak and not particularly cheap, it is now ubiquitous and versatile. Therefore, at one point in history—in my admittedly short lifetime, in fact—the only place you could find plastic ketchup bottles were in dives, and they were refillable, opaque, ugly, and squeezed out this sad little red stream onto your burger and fries.  

Obviously this is no longer the case. Convenience and practicality has combined with chemistry. No one purchases a glass bottle for their home anymore, not even for nostalgia. Restaurants took longer to come to that conclusion, because even the greasiest of chain restaurants need to have an air of class. Plastic isn’t particularly classy, so these restaurants stuck stubbornly with the glass for a long time before giving way to the aforementioned practicality.  

About fifteen years ago, when I was still waiting tables, this switch hadn’t yet happened. Back then, a server’s job included dealing with the half-empty ketchup bottles. Since a half-empty bottle left on the table looks tacky and kind of cheap, they had to be refilled with ketchup from other partially empty bottles. This was known as marrying, because in the twentieth century, states had yet to amend their constitutions to declare that marriage was only between a man and a woman. 

Marrying ketchup wasn’t particularly easy. As I’ve said before, the stuff is thick and prone to getting bubbles in the neck. Wait staff quickly learned tricks to do this more efficiently—tricks I won’t go into here because I’ve already wasted enough words on this subject, and the concept is flat-out obsolete. And even with all of these tricks, the job was tedious and time-consuming, and just something you had to endure while you rolled silverware into cloth napkins and counted your tips. It is, however, a badge of honor for folks of a certain age. 

And so, one day during a lull at work (at a newspaper where these lulls tended to go on for quite some time), a friend once postulated, “Somewhere out there is the person who knows how to marry ketchup the fastest.” 

And if you think about everything I’ve just told you, you’d recognize just how profound this offhand comment really is. 

A Gay Ol’ Time (aka, Setting Some Things Straight)

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The homophobia of Dick Hafer is not for the faint of heart. In fact, it’s pretty vile and disgusting. I’m not sure how or why I read all the way through one of his books, but I did. Mostly I was appalled by the tone, and frankly kind of amazed as well. It’s a lot of hate to cram into such a small paperback, but I’ll be damned if little Dick Hafer didn’t pull it off. 

In shock from having made it through, I skimmed through the comments section of the first part (comments sections, by the way, are a good way to give yourself an aneurysm), and one poster had the nerve to challenge other posters to refute the facts and statistics presented in the twenty-four-year-old book. I think he missed the point. And the point is this: you might think the gay agenda is bad, but I promise you that the straight agenda is much, much worse. 

How, you might ask? 

Well, for starters, heterosexuality has undermined the traditional family values that have made this country strong. For example, nearly 100 percent of divorces are between heterosexual couples; likewise, the vast majority of deadbeat dads are straight. 

Some of the foulest sex crimes have been perpetrated by straights. A significant majority of pedophiles are heterosexual, and most rapes—even prison rapes are committed by heterosexuals. 

The “Straight Agenda” has also rotted our political system. Not only are there are senators like David Vitter, who have broken laws in pursuit of their heterosexual desires, but a number of legislators, including but are by no means limited to former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich and his chosen replacement Bob Livingston, and at least one governor, Eliot Spitzer, have lost their jobs as a result of their pursuit of straight sex. Most shockingly, of all the presidents who have been impeached in since Article I of the Constitution was written, a whopping 50 percent of them have been so because of heterosexual activities. 

Mind you, I haven’t researched the exact facts and figures to back up my conclusion of his man/woman plague infesting our nation, but there are two important numbers you need to know about: 95 percent of all statistics are made up; 100 percent of them are twisted to fit the agendas of the people using them. It’s true. 

This is just the beginning. I encourage you to help me find other examples of this disease. 

* Oh, yeah. Totally forgot to mention: Sixty percent of states in the U.S. have amended their constitutions to limit marriage to one man and one woman. If that’s not evidence of a nefarious Straight Agenda, I’d like to know what is. 

To Err Is Human, but You’ll Get Your Ass Kicked for It Regardless

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I’m reading this fictional tale of an old woman fondly remembering her life, and I’m hating it. This is causing me much distress, as the author’s intentions are truly noble. She believes that the folks you see staring into space in nursing homes have lived full, rich, eventful lives that must be shared. I cannot agree more. These folks have lived through the bloodiest war in history, the Civil Rights movement, Elvis, and the Beatles. A decreasing number of them lived through the Great Depression, and because the collapse of the financial institutions of the world without the FDIC didn’t suck enough, history also threw in the Dust Bowl and the rise of fascism. Because history is an asshole. They witnessed our culture shift from manufacturing and production to service and entertainment. And the best part about it is, they didn’t even realize they were living through history, because twenty-four-hour news networks weren’t constantly telling them that they were. The experience and humility of these passing generations is a resource that we must respect—and we, for the most part, do (except when they’re driving—no respect there). 

But then there’s this book. Maybe I’m just not the audience for this book. There will always be people who want to read this kind of thing, where everything is happy and pastel, and the hardships people have to endure are vague and not at all related to mistakes. Mistakes are things other people do. It’s one of those we-worked-for-everything-and-were-grateful old people stories, but without the amusing crankiness and condescension. It relies overly on the words perfect, lovely, friendship, enjoy, and family It is this last word that gets to me, like a pebble in my shoe. 

She only upsets her mother twice (once was because she was picking blackberries for Mommy and her dress got stained). One of the old lady’s family members disowns her child because of a marriage on the wrong side of the tracks—but that’s an excuse for a tearful reunion and learned lesson later. When the old lady and her husband go on a cruise, they bring their children and spend the vacation watching them as opposed to, I don’t know, having fun. This is a family without its own hopes and dreams—just affection and learning. This isn’t family that I know. 

My family is far from perfect. We love each other, but half the time we would have loved to run each other over with a car (which happened once, but I was only four. Sorry, Dad!). There was a lot of shouting and frustration and confusion, because my parents had no idea what they were doing. That’s why they screwed up so much. And this isn’t just my family. This is most normal families. Some are the Cleaver family, and some are the Manson family. Behind every person is a parent—mother or father; biological or guardian—who questioned themselves and wanted that child to go away forever. 

This book reminds me of an email meme that goes around about how the mother does all the chores in a family’s life, like cooking, cleaning, laundry, sewing, and working full time, and she does it all thanklessly, while the father brings home a manly check, eats the food, and goes to bed. My mother (no offense, Mom) couldn’t boil a chicken if she had to, and threading a needle was something other people did. She supported our family and came home, cranky and worn out. My father worked some of the dumbest, most demeaning odd jobs in history (I know because I worked some of them too) until he could get to his own dream job. I don’t know what they gave up to raise me and my sisters. So reading these emails and these books is a slap in their faces, diminishing everything they’ve ever done by holding it up to a standard that they, or most of us, can never achieve. 

My parents worked hard, and often rewarded themselves by going out—without us!—like they damned well deserved to. From them I’ve learned from them the value of making shit up as you go along and trying to enjoy yourself at least some of the time. They taught me that it isn’t easy, and it never will be, but that doesn’t make it bad. Yes, my parents and grandparents had to climb uphill both ways in bare feet in the snow, but their lives were more than hardships; they were hard choices. I want to learn about how to do those things. I want to learn about their mistakes, because I want to learn how they fixed them or endured their consequences. Hearing about their victories may be uplifting, but it’s not useful. 

Remembering the good-parts version of life is something I am guilty of. Scratch that: the word guilty is inaccurate. There’s nothing wrong with it. I recall seeing the sunrise as I rode home from a party, without the thoughts of sleeping alone that drowned my joy half the time. I can remember why I fell in love with every one of my exes while leaving the reasons we are exes. I smile every day to memories of friends whose last words to me were the kinds of things I shout to my cats when they throw boxes at my head. I remember drinking without hangovers; smoking without coughing; summers without sweating. But I never forget these things, and any history of me without them would diminish everything I’ve ever done. 

This goes for my family, and your family too. 

It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World—Never Mind, It’s Just Me

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I didn’t want my next journal entry to be a rant, I really didn’t. Hell, I’m excited because I have some really cool entries lined up for the near future (i.e., I’ve been writing a lot and am eager to show off). 

I’m pissed because I am sick of reading people disrespecting psychology and psychiatry. The psycho-haters are an interesting and very diverse group. On one side, Tom Cruise and his fellow [tax-fraud, cult-like organization with a litigious history that is prompting me not to name them] rails about them, the religious right-wing suggests praying, and liberal potheads like Bill Maher (whom I strongly dislike because he is exactly the kind of latte-sipping, white-wine-sniffing, New York Times-reading, elitist snob who looks down his nose at the middle-class and makes it hard to sell progressive reform) claim that all doctors are out to get you. 

There are concerns, to be sure. I think some doctors are too quick to prescribe some of this medication, and I don’t think they have educated themselves enough about their side effects. In my humble, never-took-a-biology-class-past-tenth-grade opinion, if your patient is complaining about Prozac deadening his libido, the answer is not a prescription for Viagra. Yes, the FDA is a political organization that was, at one time, run by world-renowned agricultural biologist and chemist, Donald Rumsfeld, but it’s not all bad. 

However, the kneejerk, lefty claim about meds (Holier-than-thou doctors and big pharma want to control you and profit off your misery! OMG!) is too similar to the right-wing reaction to global warming and evolution (Holier-than-thou scientists and big government want to control you and profit off your misery! OMG!). Scientists and doctors went to school for years and years to become scientists. You just read an article on the Internet. Science fucks up, but they will admit if they get something wrong. Don’t pretend they don’t. 

Let’s try to be a little more realistic: For the most part, these drugs work. I said for the most part. And that’s what’s so damned difficult to comprehend about it. It’s all guesswork and trial-and-error (and yes, Mr. Maher, doctors do admit that it’s guesswork), and it takes a long time and a lot of effort on the part of doctor and patient to make it work. 

There. Is. No. Simple Cure. 

That in itself is frustrating, because I would like more than anything to take a pill or be hypnotized or something just to get rid of it. Full disclosure: I am mentally ill. It’s a pretty minor illness in comparison, even to some of my friends. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been depressed and riddled with crippling anxiety. I tried everything I could find to take the edge off, including cigarettes, illegal drugs, alcohol, poetry, really bad poetry, cognitive-behavioral therapy, heavy metal, support groups, medication, parties, exercise, rock concerts, EMDR, and journaling. All of it worked, and at the same time, none of it did. 

In one case, I found the perfect drug cocktail that made me less stressed out and less sad. And I had to stop taking one of the drugs because it had a side-effect I couldn’t live with. Now I’m trying a combination of a powerful anti-anxiety med, therapy, exercise, and writing. In a few months, this might not be working. It drives my wife crazy, and it drives me crazy. We both just want me to be better, and we’re sick of having to be vigilante for the rest of our lives. 

There is no one solution for any one person. Diet and exercise alone will not fix your depression. You can’t think it better. Anti-depressants will not make it all go away. 

What doesn’t work is telling myself (often at the urging of others) is that it’s all in my head. That my anxiety is shyness or stage fright or what have you. That the depressed are a bunch of whiners. That big agriculture and fast-food chains and TV have all poisoned our minds, and that’s the drugs are only there to make us sheep who will blindly follow The Man’s orders. The truth that lives in these statements makes them hurt, but these statements aren’t the whole truth. In short, It’s complicated! 

Rant over. 

To go boldly…

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A few years ago, I got into a heated debate with a Bush and war-supporting friend regarding the wisdom of invading Iraq. The argument was one of those in which one side refused even to listen to the other side. At one point, during a discussion of Bush’s personality, it was brought up by me that the conversation was odd, given our Star Trek preferences. We had both been members of the Star Trek fanclubs in our misguided youths, and he has made it clear to all who will listen (which really isn’t that many in the first place) that he is a Picard, Next Generation fan, whereas I am a Kirk supporter. What’s strange about this should be obvious to anyone who’s familiar with the two different captains.  

Picard, played with dignity by fine Shakespearean actor, Patrick Stewart, is simply a post-Vietnam diplomat. He consults his crew and Starfleet about any decisions he makes, follows the Prime Directive to the decimal point, only engages in violence when absolutely necessary, and can speak fluent Klingon. 

Kirk, played with a smirk by the walking punchline, William Shatner, is a warrior. he makes brash, unilateral decisions, acknowledges the Prime Directive as that rule he’s going to break in just a second, engages in violence whenever the opportunity presents itself, and only speaks one sentence of Klingon, which translates into “Kiss my ass.” 

You see where I’m going with this. Putting aside the question of Kirk’s libido, which was positively Clintonian, there are deeper similarities to the forty-second and forty-third presidents. For example, who better to portray cold, unfeeling Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld than Kirk’s science officer, Mr. Spock, played by Leonard Nimoy; and who else in Star Trek history, other than DeForest Kelley’s Dr. McCoy, could you picture whipping around and telling a fellow member to go fuck himself, like our current vice president? Likewise, is there an awkward, dull, humorless Second-in-Command who is more like Al Gore than Picard’s Number One, William T. Riker, portrayed with remarkable height by Jonathan Frakes? 

I was in a quandary, as was my debate partner. Was there one point either of us could make about our Trek of choice that would make our respective philosophies more than just lip service? Excepting, of course, the fact that Star Trek is merely fiction.  

Years later, it hit me. Despite all the connections I could draw between Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Bush, there was one distinction that sums up just about everything I find wrong with the latter: James T. Kirk would never send anyone into a dangerous situation that he, himself, would not charge into. It’s that simple.  

Now I feel vindicated. It’s a shame I don’t talk to that debate partner anymore. Though I know him, and he would spend hours trying to spin Bush’s draft-dodging ways into gold (or, more likely, he would point out Clinton’s draft-dodging), because admitting he is wrong is something Picard would do, but not my dear friend. 

“He Had a Gunshot Womb.”

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It’s been nearly thirty months since it was declared “Mission Accomplished,” and over two thousand American soldiers have died in Iraq. Accurate numbers on the deaths of American civilians and American wounded are not forthcoming, nor are numbers for Iraqis, whether they be soldier or civilian, dead or injured. 

Today, Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald has left the press blue-balled again regarding indictments, but it’s clear he’s looking into the “Niger Yellowcake” memo—the one that many US Senators and Representatives claim made them decide, almost unanimously, to give the president war powers. 

Today, my baby sister, whose first word I still remember, whose diaper bag I carried, and who has gotten me as drunk—if not more so—than a bunch of twenty-and-thirty-something bar veterans in New York City, woke up in the deserts of Kuwait, fixing vehicles that are scheduled to drive through hostile anti-American towns without sufficient armor. 

Today, some young man who was born and raised under a brutal regime is going to wake up in a town surrounded by barbed wire, with no running water, being pulled out of his car by his liberators, who will wave guns at him and demand that he do things in a tongue he doesn’t understand. 

Today, some patriotic kid from a Jesus-fearing state in the middle of his country will find himself in a strange village halfway across the world from his mother, deciding whether or not to shoot the person in the car before him, with no way of knowing if it’s someone minding his own business, or someone who’s going to kill or maim him with plastic explosives hidden in the trunk.  

Today, I attended a candlelight vigil, along with one hundred and fifty other Bloomingtonians, honoring all we’ve lost since March of 2003 and earlier. 

War blows. 

So, all my regular readers (both of you), I need you to do me a favor and pray to whatever gods or goddesses you speak to, or meditate if you are your own God or Goddess, for some sanity. 

I’m feeling sad, as if you couldn’t tell. 

“They agreed to a parting of the waves.”

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Dear friend,

I know I haven’t returned your phone calls, as difficult as it’s been for me. After the desperation in your last message, I wanted to dial your number and see how you were, but I can’t. I can’t be your friend anymore.

I’m sure you think it’s my wife’s idea, but it’s not. She’s merely given me the strength to avoid calling you back. We’re not the same people we used to be, and no matter how much time has passed since we met, I can’t let history define my relationships.

To put it bluntly, I don’t want to compete with you, but you leave me little choice when we’re together.

You insist on expressing your viewpoints, which are contrary to mine—and those most of the people I know. Normally, I wouldn’t hold this against you, but you are so pushy and downright mean with your beliefs. You belittle the intelligence of those who disagree with you, and the worst part is, you don’t even think you are doing it. You fully believe you have an open mind, but I listen to you parrot the opinions of blowhards and deny facts, and ignore me when I try to change the subject.

Being the Devil’s Advocate is in your nature, but the point of such a role is not to crush your opponent, but to strengthen them. I can be friends with and respect people with your public philosophy, but that is because they, in turn, respect people with my philosophy. It’s one thing to have a certain ideology, but it’s another to proclaim this ideology, then do nothing to support it. Your morality is inconsistent and shallow. I could rattle off examples, but that would do no good. You, in your own eyes, are never wrong.

Mostly, in regards to respect, I don’t see it in the way you treat others. You are pushy, selfish, and bristle against anyone who finds offense at your behavior. The thing that appalls me the most, these days, though, is your behavior towards women. Your chivalry is merely misogyny. Your interest in the welfare of the female species exists in entirely in the realms of their undergarments. You expect others to get out of your way if you’ve chosen a female, and you take any obstacle as a challenge, as if the person you’re pursuing is merely a prize. You’ve butted chests with me over the affections of one particular woman, not considering that I don’t look at her in a sexual manner, nor considering that she may not look at you in a sexual manner. And when we last saw each other, you asked a friend of mine to stay out of the way of another object of your desire, despite the fact that this “object” had no interest in you.

Over the years, we’ve been good friends. I’ve laughed in your company as much as—if not more than—I have with anybody. You’ve been loyal and consistent and honest with me at all times. That’s what makes this hard. I’ve thought long and hard about what it takes to be my friend, and I’ve found a few qualities to be non-negotiable. One is “Criticism.” My friends have to be able to take it constructively, and they have to dispense it to me when I need it. Another is “Respect.” Not just to me, or, as I suspect is the case is with you and I, to our history, but to my thoughts and beliefs, and the thoughts and beliefs of those I hold dear. You don’t have to like my friends, but I insist that you appreciate the fact that I like them. You don’t have either of those qualities.

It saddens me to say this, because you have been like a brother to me. But I don’t respect you anymore. You haven’t, and won’t, mature. I’ll always look back on our past with a smile, but I can’t say the same about the future.

Sincerely …