When Fucking Up was Fabled

The time of life's season is that nurturing period when the words we read were absorbed like menses by a pad and we laughed and learned to keep on doing what we were doing. The Holy Book was indeed holy but Harold Robbins made our areas feel even better. When we were called Champ it meant more than winning a trophy (DISCLOSURE: never won a trophy). But like 3rd base fingers the sacraments of the sojourn beg for those moments when getting it meant more than actually getting some. Trying to get through this veiled penance that the apparent pillow biter variety writer pleads instead of informs, I'm thankful for the sensibility that came my way by virtue of realists and guiltless pleasure seekers. Here's the thing - the second guess reveals doubt so go with the first one. It's not like you have to disavow the early shit, just embrace the present sans guilt. All those fuck ups are the new stardust and some schlub in another andromeda will be walking around one day wondering why he has the urge to boink Mildred Klebowicz. Nothing wrong with that. It's the collective consciousness brought to you by your friendly urchin.