The Fucking Blow Your Mind
Most people I know regret the things they did. Fry, who we all knew had something wrong with him, had killed a man. He had enough human in him to regret it. Mutt, who was too loud and too fast and too much, was fucking a married woman. And her husband. That was his regret. Even Squito, who mostly stayed quiet and calm, had done something to regret. He would leave late at night to drink, despite his wife and kids who thought he was sober.
But I wasn’t like that. Most people I know regret the things they did. I regret the things I haven’t.
It started when Mutt and I had been smoking something he’d gotten somewhere.
“This is top notch shit, big time, the good stuff, the great stuff, the fucking blow your mind and make you religious kind of shit,” he kept going, on and on. All of his words just blended into noises that my mind moved to the background. This shit wasn’t anything special. I’d had better.
“Mutt,” I interrupted, passing it back to him to shut him up, “why do you do the things you do?”
He smiled wide, handing the stuff back to me. His teeth were stained and his breath smelled like an alleyway. His robotic eye was glowing strong. He’d told all kinds of stories about it, from losing it in a war, to tearing it out with his own hands to prove a point. It was all bullshit. He had passed out drunk and some traffickers tore it out of his face. He seemed to forget that I’d been there.
“Well, that’s a good question, and I’m sure you know I’ve all kinds of stories that explain,” he took the stuff back from me and lost the smile. He didn’t smoke the stuff, bringing a halt to our passing. I angrily eyed it, wanting more, but listening with some part of me.
“But I’m not gonna give you a bunch stories, not this time,” he finally took a puff and passed it back, “because it’s really pretty simple.”
I stared at him. His explanation for his actions was simple? He could simply explain away all of the fucking he’d done, all the fucking over he’d done, all the people he’d ruined? I knew he was full of shit most of the time. I knew all of my friends, Squito and Fry too, were full of shit. Hell, I was full of shit. But none of us would say the things we’d done were good. Not even Mutt. So, I stared.
“I’m happy. I do what I want, and I live with the consequences, but, goddamnit, doing it makes me happy. Do I regret most of it? Hell yes. Would I do it again? Hell no. But I did it because I wanted to, and I got what I want, so I think regret is payback enough for getting what I want,” he smiled again and reached for me to pass the stuff to him. I passed it, not even bothering to take a puff.
He took a long drag and handed it back.
“Living with no regret isn’t living. You don’t gotta do stuff like I do, like Squito does, definitely not like fucking Fry does. But you gotta live.”
He stood.
“Aren’t you gonna take this?” I held the stuff out to him.
“Nah. Keep it. Get into some trouble,” he smirked and walked away, leaving me with myself.
I fucking hate myself. And I wish I hadn’t asked Mutt that, because he’s fucking right for once. And I regret beginning my own walk home after our conversation, leaving any sort of trouble I might have gotten into on the ground with the sorry shit Mutt tried to call top notch.
But I wasn’t like that. Most people I know regret the things they did. I regret the things I haven’t.
It started when Mutt and I had been smoking something he’d gotten somewhere.
“This is top notch shit, big time, the good stuff, the great stuff, the fucking blow your mind and make you religious kind of shit,” he kept going, on and on. All of his words just blended into noises that my mind moved to the background. This shit wasn’t anything special. I’d had better.
“Mutt,” I interrupted, passing it back to him to shut him up, “why do you do the things you do?”
He smiled wide, handing the stuff back to me. His teeth were stained and his breath smelled like an alleyway. His robotic eye was glowing strong. He’d told all kinds of stories about it, from losing it in a war, to tearing it out with his own hands to prove a point. It was all bullshit. He had passed out drunk and some traffickers tore it out of his face. He seemed to forget that I’d been there.
“Well, that’s a good question, and I’m sure you know I’ve all kinds of stories that explain,” he took the stuff back from me and lost the smile. He didn’t smoke the stuff, bringing a halt to our passing. I angrily eyed it, wanting more, but listening with some part of me.
“But I’m not gonna give you a bunch stories, not this time,” he finally took a puff and passed it back, “because it’s really pretty simple.”
I stared at him. His explanation for his actions was simple? He could simply explain away all of the fucking he’d done, all the fucking over he’d done, all the people he’d ruined? I knew he was full of shit most of the time. I knew all of my friends, Squito and Fry too, were full of shit. Hell, I was full of shit. But none of us would say the things we’d done were good. Not even Mutt. So, I stared.
“I’m happy. I do what I want, and I live with the consequences, but, goddamnit, doing it makes me happy. Do I regret most of it? Hell yes. Would I do it again? Hell no. But I did it because I wanted to, and I got what I want, so I think regret is payback enough for getting what I want,” he smiled again and reached for me to pass the stuff to him. I passed it, not even bothering to take a puff.
He took a long drag and handed it back.
“Living with no regret isn’t living. You don’t gotta do stuff like I do, like Squito does, definitely not like fucking Fry does. But you gotta live.”
He stood.
“Aren’t you gonna take this?” I held the stuff out to him.
“Nah. Keep it. Get into some trouble,” he smirked and walked away, leaving me with myself.
I fucking hate myself. And I wish I hadn’t asked Mutt that, because he’s fucking right for once. And I regret beginning my own walk home after our conversation, leaving any sort of trouble I might have gotten into on the ground with the sorry shit Mutt tried to call top notch.
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