The Seven Deadly Sins (17 page)

“Why”: Where do you even start to answer that simple oneword quandary? As huge as our souls are purported to be, what fills us with a bigger satisfaction—love or revenge? Would we rather give it all or take it all? This quartz in our spirits has the capacity to break boundaries or hearts, and many people have done both, myself included. We are just the paperbacks of generations, left to be flipped through on an overcast afternoon, and how quickly we forget the twists at the end. Do we learn from past mistakes so we do not repeat them, or are we doomed to repeat them? If sin is the price for free will, what is the fucking point? Most of us never get to write the rules, so who are you to fucking judge me?

I have done shitty human things because I am human. It does not mean I am proud of it, but it also does not mean I brag about it, and it does not mean I forget. I am a man with a past, nothing more and, more importantly, nothing less. No one reads the future. If you are smart, you read the past to have better control of your present. We do what we can with the time we have. But it is our time nonetheless. At the end of the day it is the only thing that is truly ours. My time takes forever; hopefully yours does, too.

I have not seen Jenny or her sister in twenty years. There is a very good possibility that they do not even remember my sad Irish ass and that is fine. I can only hope the passage of time has dulled the pain I put them through. But I can still see the way their faces turned to stone the day they turned their backs on me. What price will you pay to have the satisfaction of seeing the ones who hurt you hurting as well? Spiritually, I would rather bounce that check in heaven then spend that money in hell. The ones you love usually bear the brunt of your highest
highs and the lowest lows—the same goes for the ones you allegedly hate.

I know no one wants to hear about it, but there are human beings who bring out the best and, especially, the
worst
in us all. There is a chemical thing, a character thing, and we react whether we want to or not. So it comes to this: Assume sin exists. Now ask yourself if it is it a bigger sin to react horribly to someone you know will bring it out of you or to be the one who brings that out of anyone? People do not want to face that, but it is true. We all have emotional sonar, and we can hone in on the good shit, the bad shit, or the
really
horrible shit.

Anyway, it was a long time ago, but not so long, you know what I am saying? The rust does not buff out. Use all the Armor All you would like—you are who you are. Growing up in garbage is a lot like being a wise guy; you are in until the day you die. It will be with you for the rest of your life and the people you try to escape from will haunt you like Ebenezer Scrooge's ghosts on Christmas Eve. It is just like family: You choose your friends, but not your family. If they are south of outstanding, they will circle you like dead moons and pull you down into terminal gravity and tribulation. I do not say this with any malice. It is a fucking fact and it sucks, but survivors survive. You will always have one eye on the road and one on the rearview mirror.

As I am writing this, I am remembering more than I would like. My life has not been pretty. But I have not had it as bad as a lot of people have. And I am who I am today because of the positions I have been put in and the decisions I have made. If that means I am guilty forever, then so be it. But I am made to make: do not expect me to give a shit if it means I go against somebody else's book. Life is not that simple. That is why it is
called
life
. That word includes both
lie
and
if
. Time to figure out which side of the “half” fence you are on: Does your
life
include a
lie
or just one big
if
? There is nothing wrong with either to be honest, but it will make your Sundays longer.

Here is a hot little piece of irrelevance that might interest you. Heat up some Pepsi and pull up a pillow, kids, Uncle Corey is going to scare the fuck out of you.

I was born December 8, 1973. At first glance, that does not seem all that interesting. But factor this in: Jim Morrison was born December 8, 1943, and died young. Sam Kinison was born December 8, 1953, and died young. Frank Sinatra Jr. was kidnapped on December 8, 1963. John Lennon was shot and killed on December 8, 1980. The night of December 8, 1984, was the night of the infamous Vince Neil car crash, in which Razzle, the drummer for Hanoi Rocks, was killed. I thought I was cursed.

So for the longest time, I was convinced I would be dead by the age of twenty-one. I had dreams about it all the time. I could never see a future past the flames of youth. Yeah, it sounds like bullshit, but at the time it was just what I knew. Now I am wondering if it was just the effects of too many years living in fuckland. I had to escape the pain of living to see what actual living was all about. So maybe I just thought I only had so much time to live and enjoy it. Man, was I stupid. You can only blame the ignorance of youth on being young because anyone old enough would know better, or at least have a fucking clue that something did not make sense.

My friend “Dimebag” Darrell Abbot was murdered on my birthday: December 8, 2004. I miss him a lot, especially with all the crap in music today. But I do not blame his death on some curse. I blame his death on the insane violence of a deranged
human being. I blame his death on a random act, a selfish act that unfortunately left us with one less icon in a world short on originals. I remember that night, but most importantly, I remember the times I got to spend with my friend Dime.

So I learned to let go of youthful superstition and take life as it comes.

I am thirty-seven years old now and I am not so sure I know anything more than I knew yesterday, but I do know this: Life is better lived when you do not buy into what you think you know. It is better to know your way downhill than to try rolling up a mountain you have never seen before. Too many times I have dealt with mysteries beyond my control, and I have watched “geniuses” take a shot at figuring it out. Sometimes it is better to learn right along with everyone else than to assume you know shit about shit. A novice can rule the world; experts will get you killed every time. So what do I know? Not much, but more than most maybe. But at least I admit it. I have my share of answers, but I am still willing to learn. You can take a shower and still leave stains in your drawers. You can know a lot and still not know shit.

Why the fuck did I put this chapter in this book? Is it because of my sins, or other people's sins? Is it because of the monsters in my closet or the ones people have left in my house? I guess I want to tell everyone out there, all over the world, that no matter where you come from, it does not have to be who you are. It does not have to rule you. Your problems do not have to be someone else's problems. Humans are going to be who they are going to be and there is nothing you can do about it at the end of the day, but you can rise above all of it. You do not have to be a prisoner. You can be your own fucking hero. Am I ashamed
of what I have done? Sometimes. Do I regret any of it? Depends. Would I do it all over again? Yes. I am not in
Star Trek
: I do not fuck with the space-time continuum, and I would not change who I am.

I think my trip down Nightmare Lane is just about over. Good riddance to mental clutter. I have talked about family and all the hell that follows with them. I have talked about life and all the hail and bullets that it brings to the poker table. I have talked about the consequence of regret and the little pings and pangs of glee that come from watching your enemies squirm around in their later, disposable lives. And I have not even come close to scratching the surface. There are still things I intend to keep a little closer to the chest because as bad as it is, I still feel the need to protect my family. There were laws broken. There was evidence burned, and there are nightmares, always the damn nightmares. But I wrote this chapter to prove a point, not to twist the rest of the book into some kind of ostentatious “check me out” autobiography. I am not writing my douche diary; I am expounding about sin and the shit it rode in on.

You want to know who you are? Figure it out for yourself. Do not let your surroundings dictate your identity. Do not let your parents or your families rule your sense of self. Do not let your past control your future. These things are entirely up to you and you alone. You make your own decisions. Strength will guide you. Weakness will allow you to hide behind shallow excuses. Sure, having a terrible childhood can be an easy way out of having to make good decisions. But there are also people in this world who grew up with so-called “normal” lives, and there are quite a few of them who are total dick stains. If you take shelter behind examples of why you do not have to assume responsibility
for your actions, you will build a house in the darkness: alone, afraid, and prone to terrific flares of violent selfishness. That neighborhood will always be the backdrop for a myriad of terribly fantastic tragedies. Do yourself a favor and move out of your head.

In other words, if you want to be a son of a bitch, do not punk out and hide behind hang-ups. Just be a son of a bitch. In fact be the best son of a bitch you can be. Why not? At least you can be content and happy being shitty and miserable. Is that not what being human is all about? Is that not what living is all about? It must be, because apparently living outside the lines in contentment and fulfillment is a fucking sin. How fucking dare they? How dare they take a handful of completely natural impulses and make them fucking sins? Why? Are they themselves guilty of the sin of envy because we are guilty of being alive?

I will tell you one thing, if being a slave that haunted the city of Waterloo has taught me anything, it is this: The life you save may be your own, but the lives you fight for may save you in return. I would rather “waste” my time pointing out hypocrisies than give up on making people think. Sure, it looks easy and I look really good doing it, but it is tiring work that can only be achieved by imbibing gallons of black coffee, hundreds of cigarettes end over end, sugar, fat, and hours of terrible television. I do this for you—so suck it.

In the end I was an orphan with a huge family. I have been to war with myself and destroyed the other side, which leaves me wondering who really won those battles. I am a little bit of both and none of the above, an enigma who grew a mohawk into a
mullet and back again, living to brag about both. The days and nights of posing caught a taxi with capricious youth but left their wallet at the club. I was one of many poster children who never cared less...until we realized they were our lives, too. Moonshine, smugness, and durability—this is the generation that that was angry enough to make a scene in the parking lot as well as the food court, but acerbic enough to smirk for their mug shots.

To romanticize my time in Waterloo would be to cheapen the shit I went through, but I am only who I am because of those experiences. The dichotomy of this really fucks with my head. I never want to go back there, but I remember every place I ever hung out there, every friend I ever had there, every trail, every house I ever lived in, every school I went to, every bus route, every girlfriend, every weekend blasted, every grade wasted, and every single minute I was there because at least I was alive. I may have been ravaged and I may still be fucked up about it, but I was alive. And when you can still recall every heartbeat, there has to be some good in that time—there
has
to be.

Where the wheels break spokes, the road is always a little ragged. That road only leads to heartache. Take an exit before you hit rock bottom. Find a nice place to pull off and get your shit together. Then, once you are back in the car, put on some music and keep driving. If you are lucky, you will leave that repressive place in your rearview mirror.

So my “sins” were born in a town with no more people than the biggest city in Rhode Island, and my soul saw the repercussions. But my iron remains forged in stronger stuff evidently, with a little ore here and there still unrefined. That is okay by me; the wonder is the wandering. I just wish my world were not so sad sometimes. But as sad as I get, as bundled into madness
as I find myself at times, all I have to do is take a deep breath and remember that I am miles away from certain places. My depressing geographical map is still miles off, my GPS shows no blind spots, and I am still not back in Waterloo, Iowa, in 1984. My place is here, with my family, with my dreams, and with my sanity. Let the rest of the world go for all I care. I am going to be okay.

Sounds good. In fact, it sounds great.

Now, where was I?