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Guts & Glory, Final Show - The Need of Suffering, 5/19/15

Men, as a rule, do not suffer well.

We cannot cope with the sadness that threatens always to overtake us. We are always afraid, and cannot put a name to being so. We are chronically confused, but are incapable or unwilling to acknowledge this reality.

Mostly, I think, we do not like the admission that we are sad, and confused, and afraid.

That’s what all the fuckin’ and fightin’ is about. And how sports have come to consume us.

We are persistently sad, and deeply confused, and badly afraid. So rather than attempting to grapple with these, we lash out with our fists and our dicks. Or guns, which is really just a dick-fist.

And all this inciting of chaos, obviously, fails to provide us any relief. So we continue to grow worse.

Till we collapse. Or change. Adapt or die. Which is actually not an easy choice. Because the misery you know is infinitely preferable to the change that remains opaque.

For me, the avoidance of suffering takes the form of ingesting alcohol. In quantities that are dangerous and swinish. But then I stopped. A while ago, now.

This April, I reached twenty-one years of refraining from drink. Which is not an achievement. It’s just the ongoing reestablishment of common sense.

My last drink was a shot of Irish whiskey at the Waveland Bowl on Western Avenue in the early hours of April 26th, 1994.

You know that shudder you get when you toss back a slug of booze – that last one of the night that you know is a shitty idea? That jigger of poison that causes your gut to constrict and roil behind your belt and the entire front of your head to pucker so hard it threatens to collapse in on itself.

For most us, that last hateful dose of battery acid we pour down our gullets causes us to wise up and go easier next time. For some of us, though, that last hateful dose is not the last at all. It is only the dose we’re able to choke down before we pass out or run out of money. Or die. Then we get up the next hateful day to begin the sorry cycle again. I was one of these. But at about 3AM on April 26th, 1994, I knew I had to set the whiskey down for good, or I would die stupidly.

So I did. And so far, since then, I have wished to live more than I wish to die. Which, as I say, is actually not an easy choice.

But, before I stopped pouring poison down my gullet, I did shitty things. I was selfish and beastly.

My then girlfriend – the woman who would one day become my wife – bore much of the brunt of my self-loathing and rages, my disappearances and indifference.

A few months before I took that last hateful dose at the Waveland Bowl, I deluded myself that I had fallen out of love with her. That it was over. Because I was, I claimed, smitten with a woman from my work. And while it is indisputably true that I was attracted to this woman from my work – that I lusted after her pretty desperately – it was nothing like love.

My then girlfriend-now-wife and I had been together since college. And at that point, we’d been with each other for like seven years. Had lived together for five; had been in love from the start. So when I gave my weak break-up speech, I did not merely break her heart, I pulverized it. I shredded it. I roasted it and ate the pieces.

And my best self, my truest self, wished to remain with her forever. Which is what I wish, still, tonight as I read this.

But I am a man. And am no good at suffering.

So. Instead of confronting the great sadnesses that befell me, I drank liquor. In swinish and dangerous fashion. And raged. And despaired. And mistook my own turmoil and heartsickness for a waning between myself and the woman I loved. Or, more precisely, the woman I should have recognized that I loved, but failed to.

So there was this new, other woman. At my job. And she was blisteringly attractive. And she made known that she found me compelling. She thought me artistic and clever. And she was so, so hot. Like ridiculous.

Because, listen – I didn’t always look like this.

And there was such suffering in me. But I am a man. So could not suffer, not directly. And so the miasma of my squalid pain and her heart-stopping physical beauty conspired to convince me that I was in love with her.

Which I might have been. If I was a different kind of man. But I am not. I am… this.

Because – as is the way with physically beautiful people – this woman was, through no fault of her own, just as boring as she could be. Physically beautiful people, they live in an untroubled state, a blithe and unconcerned condition, secure in their magnetism and expansive prospects.

So because I am a man, inept at suffering, I jilted the woman who would one day become my wife in a brutish and cruel way. And I took up with the new woman. I will not name her. She was not at fault. Her intentions were good. She deserved better than me.

This new woman was decent to me. And kind. And the sex was phenomenal. Like spine-cracking. Like the fillings might shiver right out of your teeth. Which is a price you’d happily pay for sex such as this – awakening on a pillow scattered with your fillings dotted with blood.

So. On the face of it, I should have been happy – I was having mind-blasting sex with a crazily beautiful and uncomplicated woman. For somebody who claims to be an American dude, I was living the dream.

Yet still I remained sad, and confused, and afraid.

Because when you are in the pit of addiction, a pit you have clawed your way all the deeper into because you lack the courage to suffer, happiness is impossibly remote, and your every dream curdles into night sweats and menace.

Somebody once said:

The only way out of Hell is through.

I have found this to be true. Whenever I have attempted to snuff out my suffering, whenever I have tried to defer or diminish it, it remains coiled in a corner, ready to overtake me. There are no end runs around Hell, there is no bargaining with anything that has the patience of the infinite.

So she – this new woman – had only one rule. Which was that I not show up at her apartment drunk. She didn’t attempt to forbid my drunkenness, she just didn’t want it at her place.

So one night I’m hunkered at the bar where I worked, pounding whisky.

The woman arrives, gives me a once-over, and calmly requests her keys. In the distillery behind my eyes, I took her to mean that we were through. So I dug her keys out my pocket with thick-fingered hands, avoided her gaze, and handed them over. I spun on my stool with the intention of draining every bottle behind that bar.

And that night is when I began finally to sicken myself and to curse my cowardice enough, to develop suspicions, at least, that I might wish to climb up out of this pit. And begin properly to suffer.

Because in all the Pandora’s box of the human heart – is there any feeling more putrid than self-pity? I don’t believe there is.

I drank for a while after that. But it was that last-gasp chase of the addict, the idiotic scrambling of the ghost that doesn’t know it’s dead.

That woman deserved better than me. I deserved better than me.

And, the only way that I could win back the woman I then loved, and love still, was to become something other than I was. I had to adapt. And to adapt – to really adapt – is to suffer.

If ever you have betrayed someone, then you know it’s a long way back to them. You have dug by your meanness of spirit and your selfishness a gulch between you. And there is no grappling gun. You must braid the strands of a rope bridge – hour upon hour and day upon day, you must continue twisting like a spider the strands that will connect you once more, like Charlotte, weaving her web – unconcerned with self, uncertain that you are deserving, unsure if you can ever make it back across.

And across that gulch, sometimes, when you are really very fortunate, you may gaze while you weave upon a person with the grace to forgive you. A person whom you loved all along, and who will have you back if you will only accept the need sometimes to suffer.


The Wisdom of Solomon

Donald and Evelyn had been affixed to one another for almost thirty-two years. To say that they loved each other would be overstating things – even calling them attached to one another by anything stronger than habit would be a stretch. Their allegiance, such as it was, consisted more of a kind of adamant fixity on the condition of being married, rather than any abiding or personal stake in each other.

Their definition of themselves as individuals, to the extent that they thought with any frequency or care about such things, was in large measure dependent upon being a married person. Golfer. Gardener. Spouse. These formless conceptions of themselves, these predigested descriptors – these provided them some minimal degree of clarity and comfort.

Donald had one time thought, to his own rueful amusement, that their marriage was like a dog turd that had spent a long winter inside a snow bank – when the spring sun melted it free, it retained something of its form, but was blanched and ghostly and odorless.

Evelyn, for her part, regarded Donald’s presence in her home as a low-level nuisance that was decades now in duration – he was an infestation, almost, of some lumpy mammalian pest that she could never bring herself to drive away.

They had raised an unspectacular child who had long since moved away, and who, if they were honest, was fading in their memory.

What passed for conflict was when they both slept, and the dog ambled off the foot of their bed – there would be a listless jockeying of feet to lay claim to the warm patch vacated by him. In the morning, in the wake of this listless maneuvering, there was a slight increase in how clipped were their exchanges.

On the whole, though, they just marked time in proximity to one another – Donald on aimless walks, leash limp in his hand, staring blankly at the dog’s asshole; Evelyn absently reading middlebrow books that never stuck in her memory. They would dine on sensible portions, stay informed about world events in a resigned and tongue-clicking way, and would gaze unblinking at their own flickering screens while seated not far from each other.

In all, theirs was a tidy and arid little life. They were both flat-footed and glassy-eyed, pear-shaped and settled, in body and mind.

But when Donald awoke with the cold ring of a gun barrel pressed into the meat of his left cheek, the way they had been was snuffed out completely.

Evelyn’s eyes flew open, as a voice – a hellish, robotic voice – said “Wakey-wakey.”

And, for the first time in long time, Donald and Evelyn were awake.

“You know who I am?” said the voice behind the mask, digging the gun barrel into Donald’s face, then lifting it and resting it on Evelyn’s forehead. There was a smell in that room, now, like cordite and something musky.

Donald and Evelyn nodded furiously, tearfully. They knew who this was.

They had fretted in their low-intensity way over reports of a string of home-invasion killings throughout the region. The press called him the Solomon Killer, after the king in that baby-splitting story. He would break into the bedroom of a sleeping couple and force them to choose which of them he would shoot in the face. He would only shoot one of them. If there were kids in the house, he would leave them alone – he would only shoot a spouse in the head while the other one watched.

Profilers claimed that it was this compound suffering – the survivor’s guilt, the traumatizing spectacle, the visions of blood-spattered pillowcases persisting long after he had committed the crime – these were the real goals of the Solomon Killer. The production of a corpse was, for him, just a means to these. On the television, on the Sunday morning programs, the profilers conjectured soberly that the Solomon Killer’s… gratification resided in this “long tail” of grief and misery.

“So,” said the voice. “Which of you is it to be?”

Without hesitation, in the span, really, of a flinch, Donald and Evelyn pointed at each other. Fiercely, and with purpose.

And, in those trembling and wide-eyed instants before the gun went off and the room filled with the ferrous smell of blood, Donald and Evelyn, their index fingers stabbing vehemently at the air between them, saw one another more clearly and understood each other more fully than they had in a long, long time.


Consider the Liver Benefit

This is a thing I read at a fundraiser for friend Noelle's kid. It has, obviously, solved everything.

In a healthy adult male, the liver weighs about one thousand, five hundred grams.

And you’re probably like “GRAMS?!? What’m I? French?!? What’m I, some kind of soccer-jersey-wearing Frenchman? Fresh off his twelve months of paid paternity leave, though he is childless? And who’s just in his office to check his email before leaving on his six-week vacation. Whizzing around on a goddamn scooter with that smugly reusable mesh bag full of baguettes and those ostentatious carrots with the greens still on them?”

HEAR ME – though I speak to you in grams: I am an American.

So, listen up, Frenchy – you may have gorged your unlined face on baked cheese in some kind of cream sauce, and you retained your 31-inch waist because of some manner of fromage-based voodoo, but this is AMERICA, and we cannot countenance your socialized MERDE.

Look at me. This is an American waistline. These stress-bags under my eyes? I have EARNED these badges of depletion and diminishment by living the GREATEST COUNTRY ON THE FACE OF THE WORLD.

And, as Americans, we are CLEAR on the COST of greatness. As a matter of fact, in America, if a thing has not been assigned a dollar value, we have the good sense to find that thing suspect. And unwholesome. And unworthy. In America, we believe that the ONLY means of assessing value is to slap a price tag on it, and stick in a bin for purchase. AND WE ARE ONE THOUSAND PER CENT CORRECT. AND IF YOU QUESTION OUR METHODS – which we WILL know, because surveillance – WE WILL CALL IN THE DRONE STRIKES THAT WILL PULVERIZE YOUR CHATEAU TO POWDER.

Because listen up, Frenchy – with your B.O. and your thong underpants, your lack of riding mowers and concealed carry – we have done the math, and we have calculated the worth of everything – all of human experience, every bit of human know-how, and every cut of meat in the human body.

So while you and your misguided countrymen may feel that it’s some kind of human right to stride into a hospital and get treated, here in AMERICA, we do not have “HEALERS” who provide “CARE” for any unshod hobo who darkens their door, we have FLESH MERCHANTS who know to the penny the precise value ALL HUMAN LIFE. To call into question the judgments of the Flesh Merchant is to lack faith in the MARKET ECONOMY WHICH IS A VISTA OF LIMITLESS OPPORTUNITY THAT WOULD BE FLAWLESS WERE IT NOT FOR GOVERNMENT MEDDLING AND WEAK-WILLED HUMANS.

So, listen: when the Flesh Merchant names his price for the service he will provide you, that is the price you better be prepared to pay. And if you can’t pony up that full amount, you shut your complaint hole for a second, but the MARKET ECONOMY, IN ITS BOUNDLESS WISDOM, HAS DEVISED A SOLUTION.

The solution is that you pay some money every month BEFORE you get sick. This is called “having insurance,” and it SOLVES EVERYTHING, SO SHUT UP, WHINER-BABIES. But using it is like anything else: there’s rules – you gotta get sick within reasonable limits – ONLY GET AS SICK AS YOU CAN AFFORD, otherwise it’s “out of pocket.”

Which – shh, shh, shh – it’s just part of the Market Solution. No. No, no. Don’t examine it. Shh. The Market gets really, really mad if it feels like it’s being cross-examined. And BELIEVE me – if it feels threatened, it’ll come down on you like a two-ton sack of demon shit.

When you are crushed under this demon shit, it is called a market correction.

And listen, Frency, don’t HAND me that “the profit motive has no place in providing medical care” because then there is NO MOTIVE WHATSOEVER. And we’d be left with nothing but elective procedures – and while our lips would be full and our brows would be smooth and our asses would be taut, we would have the life expectancy of medieval peasants or unarmed black guys.

So without the MOTIVE to earn a profit, there can be no earthly reason for Flesh Merchants to employ their healing arts. This MOTIVE is understandable and natural, and any attempts to impede the march of this motive stands as an effort to impede human progress – because what will motivate a Customer – sometimes quaintly referred to as a “patient” – to become a fully vested participant in the Market Solution to the troubles they face than having to really dig deep when purchasing the services of the Flesh Merchant?

I mean, obviously, lesser motives such as “getting well” and “stopping the pain” are not sufficient – because if they were, would not the Customer have harnessed the power of their own Entrepreneurial Spirit to have relieved their symptoms by their own bootstraps. But they DIDN’T, did they? No. Because they BELIEVE in the POWER of a Market Solution, and they want to get every nickel of the Fair Market Price of their treatment to the Flesh Merchant, even if they gotta cook a little meth or rob a couple banks to do it.

That’s just the system working – everybody’s gotta grab a mitt and get in the game, a game with winners and losers, as God intended, not some weak-kneed game that can end in a tie. Such a game would be soccer, the dubious refuge of the French.


Guts & Glory - Godless 11/20/13

I don’t believe in God.

Which. Big fucking deal, right?

I live in a major urban center. I’m in the arts. Politically, I have long been agitating for a new Robespierre to start filling baskets in the center of public squares with the heads of bankers.

Furthermore, I have two kids. And I feel the world has enough gullible people ruled by their fears, and don’t wish to create any more.

Given these facts, the likelihood that I’m going to be devout is pretty slight.

So. No shock. Water is wet. Artsy egghead in city is atheist.

But. For me. This is a bit of thing, actually.

Not because my family is churchy. Not because my wife is religious. Not because I think I owe my kids some kind of relationship to the divine.

It’s because I’m an alcoholic in recovery. I’ve been going to Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings since 1994. So if I make it to next spring without a drink, then I’ll have gone 20 years with drinking alcohol.

Outside of the meetings, I rarely talk about being sober. For a couple of reasons: main one is, like much of what is really real, it is none of your goddamn business. That’s the selfish reason. The better reason that I mostly keep it on the down-low is that if I ever start drinking again – which is always a risk, most days it’s a low-level risk, but a risk nonetheless – it could be misinterpreted as a failure of the program, rather than my personal failing, if that makes sense.

Because if somebody who’s a drunk, or a druggie needs the help of AA, like I did, but then they learn that I’m a member of the Fellowship, and they see me drunk, then they might not believe the program works, and they might give up and die a horrible, pointless death.

And maybe this sounds weird to you, but I take this obligation really, really seriously. I owe everything I have to Alcoholic’s Anonymous – I know that sounds corny as fuck, and that we’ve all been conditioned by Upworthy videos to view such a statement as hyperbolic and dopey. Or I have, anyway.

But it’s the literal truth. Everything I have, I owe to AA.

If I had not found my way to Alcoholic’s Anonymous, I would never have gotten married. I would never have had children. I would never have started writing seriously. I would never have started my show WRITE CLUB. I would never have found a way to forgive my dad for killing himself at what, for me, was an age when I could really have used a man-shaped person to help me figure shit out. I would never have made what peace I can about my grandfather’s unsolved murder.

And mostly, I would be dead. And no, I’m not exaggerating. I’d have been dead by like ’97 at the latest.

And I’d have died alone, just like my dad – a-wallow in despair and self-pity; enraged by phantom injustices; choking back the always-rising bile. The surest fucking way to become exactly like the parent you hate is to make elaborate, repeated claims that you’ll never, ever, ever be anything like them – it is the perverse joke of the human heart, which may have greatness in it, but also can be a huge dumb-ass.

But so when you are an alcoholic, and you remove the alcohol, you are left with the feelings. Which you must experience. In all their un-minimized fury.

Which, for a person like myself, is a fully horrifying prospect. Most of the time, I’d sooner pound a tent stake into my own thigh than feel the feelings. But this is not an option. The emotional life of an alcoholic without alcohol is a gunfight – either the smoke and fire and blood-letting, which at least has the a grisly kind of clarity – or the anguish of standing in the dusty street, twitching hands poised over your gun, waiting.

For the non-addicted among you – you can know repose, for you tranquility, or at least neutrality, is possible – for us, even where we may outwardly appear to be free of turmoil, likely as not, we are coiled. We are in that single breath that precedes fight or flight. We are on a rolling boil even when we don’t look like it.

So. Given that this is as you can imagine an exhausting condition, it follows that we need relief. We turn idiotically to every form of feeling-cessation there is – TV, internet, gambling, porn, food, rage, work – any substance or activity upon which it is possible to binge. Where there is no precedent for abuse, we will invent one.

But we find, inevitably, that none of these is effective for very long. We need something more – more comprehensive, more encompassing. Which is why the program of Alcoholic’s Anonymous is framed as a spiritual one. To gain relief from the unendurable tyranny of the fucking feelings that never, ever stop for even a second, no matter how desperately you might plead with them, we are advised to turn to God.

Which makes sense. Since we are under siege from inside our own skulls, there is a sound logic to seeking relief from some outside source. And God, let’s face it, is a classic.

But I find myself unable. Not unwilling – it’s not for want of effort. I have prayed. A lot, actually. AA is a temple built by “fake it till you make it,” and it is populated by people of good will who wish to help you for no other purpose than to see you get well. So I have been advised to pray even in the absence of belief. And I have.

But whether it’s my own intellectual pride, or lack of humility, or any number of deficits that plague me, I have never been able to shake the feeling as I pray that I am a fraud, and that I am talking only to myself.

When I first got sober, I was vehement in my atheism. I was strident in my certainty.

Now I have no such certainty – I am marooned, actually, by my lack of belief. I can see in other people that their belief – even if it is rooted in nothing – is effective. I have witnessed the relief, the calming, the reduction in turmoil and hate. I see it all the time.

As you probably suspect, I hate acknowledging my vulnerability. Hate it. I also hate acknowledging that I have love in my life – that I have married the girl of my dreams and have the privilege each day of living with a woman far too good for me. I hate admitting hat I am stricken by love for my kids, a love of such intensity and ferociousness, I did not think myself capable. I hate acknowledging that I am blessed and fortunate. I hate conceding that I have found the work I need to be doing, and that despite its frustrations and the fact that it is largely unpaid, it is fulfilling and constitutes a for me a sense of purpose. I hate acknowledging that people whom I respect seem not to be lying when they tell me they like my work.

I hate all these things only in part because I hate the kind of soft-headed affirmation-spew that exists as a slack shorthand for actual feeling, the kind of psychobabble boosterism that stands as a spineless substitute for actual self-examination.

But mostly, really, I hate these things because I am afraid - chronically, feverishly afraid of losing all of it. It’s not a fear you could see, probably. I’m not one of those anxiety monkey-type people.

But I am afraid. Because of the kill switch mounted on the wall of my skull. I am afraid that one day it will all prove too exhausting, too overwhelming, too impossibly large and important and confounding, and in a moment of weakness or depletion, I will abandon it all and leap into the abyss of self-immolation that always awaits me.

People – inattentive people, mostly – too readily mistake me for a cynic. Which I get. I rant. I say mean things. I adopt a tough-minded posture.

But the people willing to peer through the cracked windows into the flimsily constructed house just past that posture, though, can see that I am no cynic. I am afraid. I am badly, hopelessly afraid.

I have a heart that is warm and wounded, and I have much – so much – to lose. So in a corner of that flimsily constructed house, I crouch around it all like a cornered animal, clawing at any who draw too near.

I wish it was possible for me to invite God into this house. I actually envy those who can, because if I could, mine would become a house less lonesome. But even with its warped floors and poor layout, the rats in the walls and leaking roof, this shabby house of mine is a true house. It is real.

So even though God is not unwelcome, exactly, he seems to me to be a made-up thing, and therefore cannot stay.


WRITE CLUB, Strength - 12/9/13

Strength need never account for itself.

Strength does not explain.

Strength does not seek your counsel or your solace.

Strength is irreducible and complete. Strength is self-possessed and self-sufficient.


At least.

This is what Strength tells itself. This is what Strength would have us believe.

Strength makes a big show of… well, of strength, but secretly? Strength is actually pretty ragged and – if we’re being honest – isn’t doing so hot, actually.

To tell you the truth, Strength is pretty beat up. And has been feeling more than a little sad. I mean, it’s been getting dark so early, it’s tough on all of us, a little bit. For Strength, though? This has been a long time coming.

Not that Strength is headed for a breakdown, or whatever. But the demands. Placed on Strength. In recent years.

Have been a drain. And a hassle.

And Strength… I mean, Strength remains STRONG, obviously. I mean, it isn’t that. It’s just… Strength has wondered – in a mostly idle way, you understand – a purely, like THEORETICAL way – whether it’s even WORTH it, anymore.

The struggle.

I mean – it’s ENDURABLE, obviously. This is still STRENGTH we’re talking about, here. But, just… sometimes. To be honest. Strength would way rather be having a glass of wine in a hot bath. And a good cry. Than all this… like, stoic abiding. That is expected. From all quarters.

The thing is: Strength doesn’t want to QUIT, or whatever. Strength can HACK it – it isn’t anything like that. But Strength could sure use a break. That’s all. Just a break. Because it never lets up. Does it? No. Never does.

Strength would just like to catch a goddamn BREATH without, you know, without the constant threat of everything falling completely apart if Strength doesn’t bring the A game all the damn time.

All Strength is ASKING – which, when you think about it is totally reasonable and in no way out of bounds, or whatever – is to sit DOWN for five minutes to grab a cup of fucking COFFEE without being, like MOLESTED by whatever the latest goddamn CRISIS is.

Honest to GOD, you guys.

Strength could use a little HELP around here. You know?

Strength would really appreciate it – like a LOT – if you could just figure shit out for yourselves for like ten goddamn minutes so Strength could just, I don’t know, not have shoulder the ENTIRE BURDEN ALL THE GODDAMN TIME BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE CAN SEEM TO HOLD IT TOGETHER.

Is it so much to ASK?

Jeez, Louise!

You know what it is, you guys? Real talk. Sit down. House meeting. Strength is calling a house meeting. Right now. Drop what you’re doing and listen up. Let’s go. Circle up.

It’s the everything-ness of what you expect of Strength. The unrelenting-ness and totality, the every-moment-of-every-fucking-day-ness of it.

Look. I get it. Some stuff only Strength is gonna be able to handle well. You pull a double shift when you’re fighting a cold – that’s a Strength job, for sure. Or your sister needs a ride to chemo. And sit with her while she fights the nausea. Strength all the way.

But there’s plenty of other areas where the rest of you guys have GOTTA pick up some slack. Come on – get off the bench, you guys. Quit riding the pine.

When the fucking client makes the racist joke in the meeting – you guys all clam up and look at Strength. Convictions? Principles? Where are you guys when that shit happens?

When you turn from your mailbox to see your landlady crying, you guys all slink past her and leave Strength to ask her what’s wrong. Even though he had the same shitty day as the rest of you, and has never liked her that much. Compassion – step up. Decency? You, too. Get in there.

Or when your spouse tells the same story – badly – for the millionth time, it falls to Strength to hold the tongue, to stop the eye roll. What about you, Discretion? How about you, Simple Kindness? And Love: where the FUCK have you been all this time?

Strength feels pretty, well, strongly, you guys, that if you just pitch in a little bit, if everybody just pulls together and does their part – then maybe we can get through this. Because. You guys. Right now, it is not looking good.

And Speed – what are you even DOING here, man? You contribute nothing but hyperactivity and fidgeting and annoyance.

But if not – if you guys cannot get your shit together and do your share – if you keep over-relying on Strength to get us through every fucking situation, then we all run the risk of Strength losing it completely and turning on us.

And we do NOT wanna cross Strength.

Because I think we can agree – none of us wants to go toe-to-toe with Strength. Strength could crush us without breaking stride. Strength could snuff us out without breaking a sweat; Strength alone has the power to destroy us all.