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Old as dirt. Twice as gritty.

I'm sick

 
The other day I took a life-changing test on facebook. Oh come on, stop dissing facebook tests, how else would I know what kind of appliance I am (blender) or what kind of car I am (Volvo station wagon)?
 
At any rate, this particular test was ‘Guess Who I Am’, and it authentically and scientifically reveals who you really are. 
 
Turns out I am a male in my late teens. 
 
That means I’m sick, man. So sick. No, no, I feel perfectly well, thank you, I’m just sick. You see . . . oh never mind. 
 
Thing is, a teen boy gig is totally cray. I mean, come on, a teenage boy? How easy is that? Sure I’m a noob at it, but how long can it really take to figure out how to say ‘sick’ several times in a paragraph, find baggy pants 20 times too large, and scout out a tube of acne cream? 
 
I’ve got to figure out the pants, though, because it looks to me as though those things just hang there suspended around the knees or thereabouts. They seem to stay up via good intentions and very little else. I’m not sure how you’re supposed to stop them from falling the rest of the way down, but hey, do I care? I’m a teenage boy. And YOLO, man.
 
Wait, I’m going to need me a board. And thinking about those skate parks, maybe some insurance. 
 
Best-up about this gig is that I no longer have to wear out my face smiling all the time. I just have to don a righteous scowl and voila, I’m set for the day. 
 
I don’t need any scrilla, either, because my mains will back me hundo p, they’ll do me a solid. If they don’t, that’s okay too, because hey, I’m a teenage boy. I’ve got my XXXXXXXXXX large pants, my scowl and my board. What else do I even need, in this best of all possible worlds? Oh yeah, the acne cream. If she were still alive, my moms could maybe give me some scrilla. Maybe  she wouldn’t, though, because she’d be all, like, “Yo, get outta my face, bro”, or something.
 
Now my mains, well, I’m kinda worried there. I’m wondering how they’re going to handle the new me. Maybe there’ll be some derps in the mix who’ll be chirpin’ at me, but hey, I’ll moss. And if there’s some serious haters, well, I’ll just dip.
 
Hold on, good lookin’ boy that I be I’m going to need a shorty to go with. If the shorty is really sick, she can be my wifey. We’ll bounce our way down YOLO Avenue, and it’ll be so, so sick.
 
You know, I think I can pull this off without an epic fail. Hell, unlike my new yute friends, I don’t even have to worry about POS while I type this, although a certain amount of rolling-over-in-grave is probably happening. Yo, Moms? Pops? You’ve been pwned.
 
It’s the bomb diggity, man. Now I gotta bounce, yo.


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About the Author

This bio was written by Jo Slade. As you can see she has written about herself in the third person. What normal person would do that? They just wouldn't. Who knows how many other persons might be involved in this thing, a second person? Another third? I worry about it. I - she - we - can't even keep it straight, this paragraph is a damn mess, there are persons all over the place. Round 'em up and shoot 'em. That's what I'd do, and by golly I think that's what Jo Slade would do as well.

Biographic nutshell: Jo has been messing around with words for a long time. Sometimes she'll just say words instead of writing them, it saves on paper.

This column: The columns that will appear here are of a highly serious and scholarly nature, therefore it is advised that you keep a dictionary and ponderous thoughts nearby.

If, after reading the column, you find yourself tossing and turning at night, burning with the need to email me, just do it. I answer to [email protected]







The views expressed are strictly those of the author and not necessarily those of Castanet. Castanet presents its columns "as is" and does not warrant the contents.

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