The Real Folk Blues

I am a child of the nineties.

An era of blank slates, spoon-fed personalities, blast processing and grunge. My heroes are either dead or fictional. Or both.

I grew up, along with everyone else. Terrible music with screaming idiots assaults my ears constantly. I’m asked to be added to someone’s MySpace. Armchair gladiators discuss fight results as if they were part-time coaches instead of just full-time douchebags. “I could’ve fuckin’ kicked that guy’s fuckin’ ass, bro!” says one. “Shut up and hand me the bong, you faggot.” says another. I don’t feel as though I belong here. My mind is elsewhere. In that reality I’m a private eye solving a case given to me by a buxom dame. In that reality I’m an astronaut looking into the face of God and, in that moment, realizing that nothing matters anymore. In that reality I’m a rock star. A super-hero. I am anything and everything. Eventually, I come back to this reality just in time to answer a meaningless question. Something about an alternative church on Sunday nights?

When did Jesus become so popular among the disaffected youth?

I politely answer the question as best I can and come to the conclusion that I need to start smoking again.

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