Doing My Small Part For The Soldiers

I was watching footage of the Iraqi war on the news, and there was a shot of a soldier sitting on the steps of a dilapidated building with his head in his hands. It made my heart hurt. I thought to myself, how terrible it is that this young man must endure such horror. If I saw such things at that age I’d have wound up shuffling around the streets of Chicago with plastic bags for shoes while talking to a bar of soap.

However, this inspired me to do my small part for our soldiers in Iraq. I quickly got online and found a pen pal service so I could help encourage and support a soldier through a lonesome and difficult time. Below is our correspondence. I hope you it find as inspiring as I do.

Dear Private Hanson,

 My name is Matt Dwyer, and I am writing you from the city of Los Angeles. No, I am not a movie star but, as you can see by the picture I sent, it won’t be long until someone recognizes my rugged good looks and makes me a star. (Ha-ha that was a joke.) Let me take this time to thank you for your bravery in serving…FUCK! Goddamnitt! You won’t fucking believe this. Goddamn mother fucker! My cable just went out. God my life sucks! Can you believe this shit? Right in the middle of the Yankee/Red Sox game, man if I paid for this cable I’d be chewing someone a new asshole. A. Rod was at bat with bases loaded. I can’t stand A. Rod. Hey maybe you can point that gun of yours towards New York and blow his cock off.

Sorry dude I gotta cut this short. Gonna run down to the bar and watch the rest of the game. Totally sucks cuz I don’t wanna be blowing three bucks a brew.



Dear Matt Dwyer,

Thank you very much for your letter. I grew up an orphan in the inner city of Detroit, so I don’t really get many letters. Any contact with the outside world is appreciated.

I only joined the Army because once I turned eighteen and was released from the orphanage I had nowhere to go and no means for college. So this was my only option. If I would’ve known we’d have gotten involved with this conflict, I would have opted to work in a gas station.

You would not believe what horrors I have seen here. Every day I pray to Jesus Christ I make it out of here alive, and, if I do, I promise him I will do my best every day to make this world a better place.

Private Hanson


Dear Pepper,

Do you mind if I call you Pepper? I was thinking that since you are from Detroit you more than likely are black and if we were hanging and drinking I’d probably give you a nickname, and Pepper seems like a good one

Have you heard the band Fall Out Boy? What a bunch of fags. It pisses me off. What happened to balls out rock? Am I right? Music is either a bunch of talentless whores or a bunch of waify pretty boy faggots. Makes me sick. Fall Out Boy? What kind of name is that? Black Sabbath, Bad Company, now that’s bad ass bands with kick ass names. Hey, can you do me a favor, point that gun of yours over at Fall Out Boy and blow their cocks off. (That is if they have any?)



Dear Matt,

Please don’t call me Pepper. For starters, I am Asian and, if I was black, I’d find the name Pepper to be highly insulting. Also, I have never heard of Fall Out Boy. I haven’t heard anything but screams, explosions, and gunfire for the past six months.

Yesterday morning my company got caught off guard. My closest friend got severely wounded, and it is uncertain if he is going to make it. He was standing right next to me when it happened. A kid who must have been no older than twelve came out of nowhere and shot him in the chest three times. I shot the kid dead before he could turn his gun at me.

 I can’t believe I killed a young boy. I know I had to do it to protect myself, but it’s insane. I can’t get my mind around it.

Private Hanson.


 Lighten the fuck up! Jesus! I’m all ready bumming and now I gotta listen to that. You think you got it bad? Saturday my girlfriend dumped me and I got so drunk I plowed some fat skank in the back of a bar. Two days later I find some weird red lump on my ball sack. It’s freaking my shit out.



Dear Mr. Dwyer,

With great sadness and regret, we must inform you that Private Thomas Hanson was recently taken from us while serving his country. We know his loss may come as a shock, and you may need some time to recover from the pain you are feeling. However, if you’d like to be assigned another soldier you can correspond with, we’d be more than happy to do so.

 Thank you for the letters you sent Private Hanson. I am sure they brought joy to his heart. Let’s hope this conflict ends soon so we can bring our troops home safely.


John T. Doran

President: Pen Pals For Soldiers.

Dear Johnny,

I don’t mean to sound like a dick but that dude was a fucking drag. I’d love to write some more letters. There any chicks over there? I like redheads. Send me one of them. Let me see some pictures first though.



For some reason, Johnny never responded to my letter which I guess is cool because I don’t have much time for letter writing anyway since I got my cable back on.


My Journey Into Fear

I recently decided that I couldn’t truly be a compassionate person until I fully understood the human condition. I also decided that fear is the driving force in all people so, to truly be compassionate, one must understand each individual’s fear.

 Wanting to be a more compassionate individual, I decided to partake in a series of experiments that would give me a greater understanding of fear. I began by choosing three situations that I – as a white, male adult – couldn’t comprehend. I then set out to experience each one them. 

The first situation was the fear a child must feel while being abducted. Thus, I promptly put on a diaper and a bonnet, stuffed a pacifier in my mouth and headed to my local playground.

I sat there in the playground for approximately two hours waiting for a man to pull me into his windowless van. No matter how cutely I cooed and giggled all I got were strange looks until the police arrived and tried to forcibly remove me from the park.

  Not one to let the presence of the police intimidate me, I upped my commitment to being a baby. I began crying and screaming and even defecated in my diaper. This resulted in a swift and brutal beating from the police.

The idea for my second experiment came when I read an article about a black man who was attacked by a group of white supremacists. Though I felt empathy for this man, I knew I couldn’t truly understand his suffering unless I experienced it.

  I quickly put on a zoot suit, a giant Afro wig, black face, and then shucked my way out of my apartment. To my surprise, I was immediately attacked right there in my own hallway and – not by white supremacists – but by my black neighbor Jim.

Though the result of this experiment was different than the one I was searching for, it did make me realize that black-on-black crime is tearing apart our ghettos and single apartment complexes in The Fairfax district of Los Angeles.

  Women, know this. I feel your pain. I know the harsh struggles of the sisterhood and, as a man, I want to apologize for the way we have treated you.  

Last week I got a dose of this treatment first hand when I dressed like a woman and walked up and down Santa Monica Blvd. in Hollywood. You wouldn’t believe the things men yell at the woman. This is what I heard from a number of passing cars, “Whore”,  “Suck my dick”, and “Faggot.” Why anyone would call a woman faggot is beyond me. However, I quickly learned that one should never be surprised at how deplorable men can treat women.

 One man even lured me into his car and forced me into sexual relations with him. Good thing I prepared myself for such a conflict. Prior to this experiment, I read a woman’s self-defense book that had been published in 1952 and was entitled, “Woman Relent.”

 As the book instructed, I didn’t fight and let the man have his way with me. As he humped, groped, and gasped about me I prayed to the good Lord Jesus Christ that he wouldn’t cut my throat. Luckily he did not.  He simply finished his task, threw a twenty on my face and demanded I see him next Thursday. I agreed, but next time it’ll cost him forty.

  I am sure it comes as no surprise to you that these experiences were emotionally scarring.  However, I believe that is a small price to pay to grow as an individual and have a greater understanding of humanity.

My Journey For Truth

I have recently read Che Guevara’s The Motorcycle Diaries and the one thing that really affected me was his unbridled honesty as he spoke his opinions freely to everyone no matter what status they held in life.

I must admit I am not always the most honest person. I often tell people what they want to hear, and I’ll easily side step the truth to avoid confrontational or uncomfortable situations. However, upon reading Mr. Guevara’s book, I decided to live my life as honestly as I could.

 I decided best to begin by undoing the lies of my past, so I promptly picked up my phone and called my ex-girlfriend. I said, "Hi, this is Matt, and I want to come clean for your sake and mine. You give very toothy blowjobs, and you did look fat in that dress. Come to think of it, you looked fat in all dresses. Furthermore, one Christmas morning while you slept, I had sex with your sister in the bathroom."

To my dismay, I said all this to an elderly Russian woman with caller ID. For legal reasons, I can't go into this situation any further.

 Regardless of the lawsuit and the crying old Russian woman, I made a bold step in the growth of me, Matt Dwyer.

The next step on my journey for truth led me to the home of New Jersey rocker, Jon Bon Jovi. A few years earlier I wound up at a dinner party with Bon Jovi, and I said to him, “I have always been a big fan of your music, and my sister is going to die when she finds out I met you.” This, of course, was another lie I felt compelled to correct.

 I arrived at Mr. Bon Jovi's house early on a Sunday morning just in time to catch him strolling down his driveway to pick up the morning paper. I called out from his gate, "Excuse me, Mr. Jovi." He squinted his eyes to see who was calling out his name. "I met you a couple years ago through my good friend...(I can’t mention my friend’s name for he is very famous and I don’t name drop, but let your mind wander on that one because he’s huge.)

    Jon remembered me and asked, “What are you doing at my gate?”

  I said, "I'm sorry. I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.” I stopped myself drew a big breath and then continued, “Actually that's not true. I specifically came here to tell you that three years ago when we met I lied to you, and I would like to clear that up right here and now."

Jon looked concerned. "Great. Thanks."

“I told you I was a big fan and that my sister would be jealous I was having dinner with you. Well, I think your music sucks, and I don’t have a sister.”

Shocked, Bon Jovi dropped his paper. “You don’t like my music?” he asked, as a storm of tears welled up in his eyes. “No sir, I don’t.”

 Bon Jovi fell to his knees and started crying uncontrollably. For a brief second I thought about consoling him but then noticed his burly security guards running towards me and ran.

My next exercise in honesty came spur of the moment as I stumbled home from my favorite bar in east L.A. I noticed a group of young, shaved-headed Mexicans enjoying a joint. My first instinct was to slowly cross to the other side of the street, but I decided to approach the four Latin gentlemen.

"Hola," I said.  "I just want you four Mexicans to know that I was going to cross the street to avoid walking past you for fear you may mug me, but I decided to come up to you and become your friend for we all live in the same neighborhood and we are all united by the greatness of L.A." They swiftly beat the shit out of me and stole everything including my Hanes boxer briefs.

So what do we learn from all of this? That honesty is a long and painful road, but it’s better to take a few lumps on the head and have your soul and mind clear, free, and filled with truth.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I never read The Motorcycle Diaries. I rented it two nights ago and fell asleep because of the subtitles.


Committing The Perfect Murder

I am smarter than most people. I know that may sound arrogant or elitist and maybe it is, but it's true. To be honest I'm probably smarter than you the reader. Please don't take offense to this. I am certain you have a lot of great qualities. You probably work hard at whatever it is you do be it, laying bricks, filing, or being a mom.

That's great. Good for you, but I have had drinks and a conversation with Tom Stoppard. I even changed his opinion on the works of Kerouac. Can you say that? Probably not, and more than likely you don't even know who Tom Stoppard is, but I forgive you for that because you're not as smart as me. Realizing I am smarter than most people on the face of the earth has made me come to the conclusion that I should commit the perfect murder ala Leopold and Loeb sans the sodomy.

The first thing I decided was that I wanted my murder to be a work of art. For the crime scene to be a vibrant and aesthetically pleasing to the eye. I also wanted the execution to be more like a performance than a mad grizzly murder. To make this happen one needed the perfect victim. I instantly chose my next-door neighbor. She wasn't perfect but one must know, though I am smarter than most people I am also lazier than most.

At first examination, my neighbor may appear to be an easy target. She lives alone, has no friends or family and not a person in the world will notice her absence from this earth. However, to up the ante and to go a step further I called the police and said, "Hello pig, I am Matthew Sean Dwyer and I'll be murdering Ms. Marcia Walla Garret of 1157 Marion Avenue sometime this week. I live next door to her, but I won't tell you which door because you gotta do some work, am I right pig?"


As a symbolic act, I chose the day Sharon Tate was murdered. I think.  I didn't look up the date because as I aforementioned, I am lazy. Nevertheless, in my heart and mind, it was the same date and that's all that really matters, right?

I waited for Ms. Garret to take a shower and then I broke into her apartment. I strategically placed five blank canvasses on easels about her apartment and then stripped naked and waited for her to depart the shower. A fat naked Ms. Garret soon entered the living room and froze at the sight of me. Who could blame her, it's not every day you stumble onto fully erect nude man garnering a weed whacker in your living room.


Without missing a beat I started to attack her with the weed whacker. I couldn't help but laugh as her blood splashed onto one of the canvasses as if Jackson Pollack himself had placed it there. Ms. Garret began to run away from me, but I was able to control her direction like cattlemen controls a cow.

 I pulled out a black jack. I beat the skull that was the carriage for Ms. Garret's weaker brain. Once the life drained from her eyes I placed a baby blue bonnet on her head and price tags on the now blood splashed canvases. If you cannot see the obvious Warholian/Carvagioesque similarities then once again my point is proven, I am smarter than you.

I exited Ms. Garret's apartment to discover my neighbors staring at my blood-drenched body in horror. Confident and fearless, I looked them in the eye and said, "I murdered her and what have you dumb asses done with your day? With that, I entered my apartment and awaited the arrival of the police.

Twenty minutes later the police arrived. Still naked and covered in blood I answered the door and said, "I killed Marcia Walla Garret. What do you intend to do about it pig?"

I was promptly arrested, taken to the station, booked and put in jail. I refused to get anyone to post bail for me, and the following morning when I appeared in front of a judge I confessed to the crime and pleaded guilty. The judge swiftly sentenced me to twenty years in a state penitentiary where I now write this pleased that I pulled off the perfect murder.

I know you are saying, "Matt you are in prison didn't you fail at committing the perfect murder?" Isn't that subjective? My perfect murder is not going to be the same as yours. Furthermore, I compared my murder to Leopold and Loeb's, who were caught. Thus, I have achieved my goal and once again have proven I am smarter than you. Also in prison, I don't have to work. I just lie around and read in my cell all day, which is perfect because I am lazier than most.

I'm Going "L.A."

 I have lived in Los Angeles a little over five years, and the entire time I have been here I have complained about it. Believe you me, my complaints about L.A. could go on for pages and pages, but this is not about that. This is about me turning over a new leaf and giving in to Los Angeles. I have accepted that I am stuck here and shall be here for a long while, thus I think it best to go “L.A.”

The first thing I decided to do is to get hair plugs. I know I have a full head of hair, but I like the look of hair plugs, plus it makes a bold statement of one's character. It says, “I am a winner for I don’t let a thing like age and genetics take me down.” I am also going to get pec and calf implants. I have always wanted to be slightly muscular, but frankly, I hate working out, so again, I am a winner.

I will move to the west side and get a nice wide-open sparsely furnished apartment. I will replace any bookshelves with stone Italian statues of women having gratuitous lesbian sex. Placed on the tables throughout my home for all to see will be screenplays. I will never actually read more than five pages of any of these scripts, but will make strong judgments on them based on pointless observations like, “Schooner ships? No one has set a movie on a Schooner ship since the 1980’s. No one will make it.” I will also have a hot black Haitian servant who I will often say sexually degrading things too. However, she won’t speak English and thus can’t understand what I say.

You may be questioning at this point, “Aren’t Hollywood types known for being crazy leftist liberals?” This is a big misconception. Granted we tend to support liberal politicians and a few leftist causes. We are also sexist, racist and the perpetrators of stereotypes. Many production companies and studios don’t recycle; take advantage of workers hours and wages with various loopholes.  I wish to participate in all these splendors.

I think a key part of my new L.A. identity will be to keep my sexuality vague. Sure, I will often be seen with a much younger very attractive woman and I will often have sex with them, often two or more at a time. However, I will also have a penchant for sleeping with young hairless Asian men. I will believe to be a status thing. However, if I am ever pressed to explain why I believe this, I will be at a loss for words.

For employment, I have decided I will be one of those guys who lives off of Daddy’s money. Occasionally I’ll invest in some independent movie project, but for the most part, I’ll party on boats, do coke to an unattractive age, drink Chardonnays while throwing porn and shuffleboard parties.  Eventually, I will become too broke and old for anyone to want to hang out with me, and I will spend my final days in a much smaller house in a wicker wheel chair sitting in front of a window until I die. I will leave what little money I do have to my nurse who hated me and prayed for my death daily. It’s going to be a great new life. I can’t wait to start it.



The Artistic Integrity of Carl Standish

Carl Standish was a man of great artistic integrity except he didn't do anything all that artistic – well at least to others. However, to him, he made the most wonderfully flowing lists that could make one's eyes water with the raging beauty of how delicately and thoughtfully he placed the order of each word in his daily, "To Do" list. Grocery lists were his particular favorite to create. Sometimes he'd organize them by colors, or which foods were which German General's favorite to eat. One time his grocery list comprised only of things that were in the color palate of Caravaggio's paintings. However, no one would ever know this, but him.

His favorite list of all time was for his dry cleaning that was to be done on May 28 1952. It looked like this.

1) Wool gray suit jacket.

1) Grey suit pants.

1) White linen dress. (Red wine stains on left sleeve.)

Block hat.

The "block hat" made him giggle at the absurdity of it all. For one, he didn't own a hat and so to him, in his brain, it was a social comment on the mental block McCarthy was having cleaning communism from America. No one he would ever get this, but if they did, they'd have giggled as well.

Carl's wife didn't understand his lists, but she understood their great importance to him. Whenever he showed them to her she'd stop whatever she was doing, eye them for a while, smile and then say, "You did it once again Carl."

Carl believed his wife to be the only person in the world who understood him, not just as an artist, but also the every corner of his being. Thus, to him, she was his soul mate. At her core his wife was loving towards him, but far from truly in love with him. Her true love died just prior to meeting Carl. He was stabbed in an alley fight outside a pub while vacationing in London. She only married Carl because he vaguely resembled her dead lover and he could provide her a decent life.

Though this relationship flowed nicely, was very cordial, and the sex was on par, it was bound to hit a bump in the road and that bump was Sunday, June 17th, 1956. When Carl presented this list to his wife.


1) Breakfast at corner café.

2) Pick up, Mother.

3) Stoll through park.

4) Take mother home.

5) Go to Cinema at 8:00 P.M.

Carl was especially proud of this list and though it was unseen by the average eye everything on this list was a vague reference to the subtext of an untitled T.S. Elliot poem. Like always his wife praised the brilliance of his list, and then something caught her eye. "Oh no," she said. "I can not make the cinema. I must meet my sister."

Shocked and confused Carl stared at her. She made several attempts to apologize to Carl and to ensure him his list was brilliant. That this was her error not his, but he did not to hear her. He went silent and grew despondent and over the following weeks, his lists began to suffer.

One of his worst lists was in the late autumn of that year.

November who cares, 19something who gives a fuck

1) Wake up.

2) Shit.

3) Do some shit

4) shit shit

5) shit fuck shit shit fuck shit.

6) Shit fuck shit

For the months following this list, Carl refused to shave, leave the house, and he barely ate which left his face gaunt, wrinkled and eventually he stopped making lists altogether. The stress of this made his wife grow frail and frightened of what may be coming. She took up chain smoking and drinking shots of aperitifs from morning 'til dusk as she sat alone in a dark room in their now filthy home.

Then one blistering January morning Carl Standish awoke with the most brilliant list he could ever have imagined. It simply read:

Free myself

Free my wife

Free us all

And with that, he vanished.

Algonquin Square Table

 The Algonquin Round Table was a group of New York City writers, critics, actors and wits that met from 1919 until about 1929.  Some of its members included Dorothy Parker, Alexander Wolcott, George S. Kaufmann, and Harpo Marx. Some of the most famous of quips such as Ms. Parker’s, “Girls with glasses never get passes”, were thrown across the Algonquin roundtable.  However, on the other side of the room was a lesser known circle writers and pseudo-wits that went by the name, The Algonquin Corner Table Off To The Left Of the Kitchen Entrance. Certainly, a long name but every time the manager saw this group entering it is what he would whisper those to the maitre d so they would be seated far away from any of the Algonquin’s respected clients.

Among the Corner Table’s regulars was playwright Carlton Hayes.  Some considered calling him a playwright generous since he only wrote one play, that was six hours long, and more a detailed account of a weekend trip he took to Ohio.  In fact, the play was so dull and tedious doctors prescribed it to patients who suffered from insomnia.

Novelist Emma Haulbag was the only female member of the group. Her novels, Death Wagon In My Vagina, and Fuck The Irish, were so hated by critics and readers that strangers often punched her in the face. Tired of the constant abuse she decided it best to alter her appearance. Not being able to afford cosmetic surgery she got hormone shots from an illegal immigrant doctor, which resulted in her growing a handlebar mustache.

The third and most successful member of the group was Thurston C.  Gordon. Thurston was a paranoid-closeted homosexual and a prolific poet.  His first three books, No Seriously I’m Not Gay, Moroccan Boys, and I Only Fall In Love With Butch Women, all received a great deal of attention, but more for the titles than the actual writing.

Sadly the only quip remembered from the corner table is when Thurston took a sip of water and said, “I’m at the point in my life where even tap water gives me gas.” The entire table erupted with laughter and then erupted from his flatulent. Usually, the quips were delivered quickly followed by loud fake laughter as they looked over to the Round Table to see if they were getting their attention. They never did.

Eventually the Corner table was barred from the Algonquin due to their overall annoying demeanor. They found refuge in a greasy spoon in Hell’s kitchen where their dull quips and pointless conversations continued until they disbanded after Emma died of an overdose of liquor and pills. However many speculate she was murdered by a group Greek men who held her down and forced ouzo down her throat after the publishing of her book, All Greek Men’s Balls Smell Like Feta.

Genealogy and My Low Self - Esteem

 I recently researched my family's genealogy and what I discovered was eye opening in the way I view myself. What I learned was that for centuries the Dwyer's have suffered from low self-esteem and self-loathing.

The first Dwyer documented was Michael O'Dwyer from the county of Cork, Ireland. Michael designed the Dwyer family crest, which was nothing more than a dented shield emblazoned with a pigeon perched atop a flaccid penis. Written underneath were the words, "The O'Dwyer's – As filthy as pigeons and as mighty as a limp dick." Michael Dwyer was so self-loathing that he was known to forsake all Catholic law and masturbate in the town square so he could publicly mock his sperm for being lazy.

  A century later, in the same town, Michael O'Dwyer's great-great-grandson, Shamus O'Dwyer, took the position of village idiot. However, he was so filled with self-hatred that he lobbied the town council to change the name from "village idiot" to "the village worthless, no-good, lifeless cock-sucking son of a whore." The town council quickly agreed to Shamus' request. This is quite remarkable considering the town was very religious and the use of profanity could land one in the stockades for three months. However, one councilman commented, "Though this title is highly offensive, it is also very accurate, and I wouldn't be surprised if the good Lord refers to Shamus in the same manner."

     Anyone aware of Irish history knows that throughout the centuries the great island of Ireland has constantly been invaded and its people terrorized, murdered, and raped. 
It has been documented that during these invasions, the Dwyer women would lie on their backs, put their legs in the air, and await a raping – all the while saying, "We deserve this." It has been rumored that some of the male Dwyer’s felt cheated and would don dresses in hopes of being raped as well. If this failed, the male Dwyer’s would simply rape one another.

  In 1901 Flannery O' Dwyer immigrated to Ellis Island. When he got off the boat he was greeted by hundreds of Irish-hating Americans who were cursing and beating the newly arrived Irish. As Flannery walked among his people listening to the insults, he'd simply nod and say, "I couldn't agree more." When he reached the end of the line of hateful greeters, he ran back to the boat and went through the line several more times.

   In the 1930's it appeared as though the Dwyer’s had ended their reign as self-hating outcasts. Gentleman Jim Dwyer was quickly becoming the boxing rage of America. They called him 'Gentleman Jim' because of his quiet demeanor and his constant fixation with opening doors for people. One night when going to dinner at a very posh and busy restaurant in New York he never even made it to the table. Instead, he stood outside for six hours opening the door for anyone who wished to enter the establishment. What people didn't know was that Gentleman Jim wasn't a gentleman at all; he just never thought he was good enough to enter a building before anyone else.

  Regardless of Gentleman Jim's self-loathing, many loved him. Irving Berlin wrote a song about him entitled, "Gentleman Jim, I wanna be him." He was even briefly a member of the esteemed Algonquin Round Table until he responded to Dorothy Parker's famous quip, "Pearls before swine," with "I fucked a pig once." Which he had, but many more times than once. In fact, he once tried to marry a pig. He believed it the only animal he was worthy enough to love.

  Unfortunately, Gentleman Jim's success and fame came crashing down during his heavyweight championship bout with Elmer "Hotsy Totsy" Rhoden. In between the second and third round he heard the crowd cheering and supporting him. He couldn't understand or accept such love and adulation and said to his trainer, "I don't deserve love. I am going to put a stop to this." With that the bell rang and he entered the third round, boxing himself. He did so until the seventh round where he KO'd himself. A week later he died. His death, however, was not boxing related but rather came about from severe wounds caused by opening a can of soup.

 Sadly, the self-loathing and horrible esteem issues have carried to the current generations of Dwyer’s. My very own father spent his entire life convinced that Jesus Christ had died for everyone's sins but his. When pressed on the issue my father would say, "Jesus died for the sins of man. Not for the sins of a simpering idiot." 

 Even I suffer from esteem issues and self-loathing. Granted, it's not as severe as my father's or those of my ancestors. I, unlike them, have gone to great lengths to heal myself. I was in psychoanalysis for ten years. I attend endless self-help meetings, and I currently see a therapist five times a week. At the end of every session I say to my therapist, "Hating yourself is easy. Loving yourself is hard work." To which he replies, "Go fuck yourself, you worthless jack ass." To which I agree.