Have Faith: Life and Times of a Glorious Asshole

An Angry Hooker Joins the Goodie-Gang

Rules To Live by when Pretending to be Good:

1. Act Friendly
2. Act...Good-ish
3. Pretend to have virtues
4. Watch Shawshank Redemption again
5. Number 4 has nothing to do with being good. It's just a really great movie.
6. Beer. Because if I have to pretend to be good, I need to at least do some underage drinking.
7. Pretend to like Goodie-Gang
8. Pretend to be generous
9. In the end, if it comes down to it, I look out for myself. I come first
10. I ALWAYS come first
11. Don't get attached

These are the things I'd repeat to myself every single day after that encounter I had with the demon.
These were my steps for pretending to be something I wasn't.
Pure, unaltered, good.
Not a selfish or mean bone in my body.

Pulling stuff as unbelievable as this is tough shit, let me tell you.

Yet, I would repeat these words to myself-these steps every day.
Every morning.

One morning in particular, several weeks after my Buffy the Civil-Rights Demon Slayer escapade, I sat up in bed, wiping the long line of drool from my mouth.
I stretched, and, as part of my morning ritual, I recited the steps silently in my head.

Still slightly groggy, I toddled about the room I had claimed as my own, stumbling over clothes I had thrown on the ground. Yawning, I bent over, picking up a shirt from the ground and sniffed it.
Cleanish.

Look, I'm not a good person. You think that people who aren't good care how they look? No. I just do my thing.

Take Eric for example. He's good. And the dude will spend literally an hour in the bathroom.
He cares.
He cares a lot.

Then again, the very bad people I've come across also care about how they look.

One guy I've met, he press irons his jeans.
Pure.
Fucking.
Evil.
You'll read about him soon enough.

Can we just take a moment and reflect on that?
Jeans.
Press ironing....jeans.
Who the actual fuck press irons jeans?
They are fucking, diddly damn, shit roasting, cock sucking, uber fucker-loving, bitching, jeans.
WHAT.
THE.
FUCK.
Okay, maybe jean ironing is an itsy bitsy teeny weeny pet peeve of mine.
But seriously-it's bullshit.

Okay, back to the point.
I picked up a pair of my own UN-IRONED, normal jeans like an actually NORMAL person because of course, I wouldn't want to look like an overly domesticated fucktard.

I put on a pair of girls batman boxer briefs because, even though I'm not a good person...anybody can own a shit ton of superhero themed underwear.
So, with my pair of radical ass boxers and a bra on, I slipped on my shirt and the pair of happily wrinkled jeans to go about my daily business.

What was on that days itinerary?

Nothing.
Because only responsible low life's make plans.
And I'm not responsible.
And I'm only slightly a lowlife.

I walked down the stairs to the kitchen to see Eric frowning. As for fucking usual. I whistled cheerfully, skipping over to him and grabbed either sides of his mouth. "Turn that frown," I grinned and turned his lips upwards into a smile. "Upside down!"

"That saying is ridiculous." The boy snapped.
"And why is that, Mr. Grumpy Pants?" I asked in a mocking tone.
"If a frown was actually turned upside down, it wouldn't be a smile. The upper lip would be where the bottom lip was and it'd look like something out of a horror movie." He rolled his eyes, grumbling.

"Ouch, did you somehow take that stick that's already shoved through your sphincter and ram it even further up your ass last night?" I asked. "You gotta stop with that. One day it'll go so far, it'll come out your nose. I don't know if that's a link or anything of yours, but it could end pretty badly. You know what they say," I paused, motioning for him to help me alo with the conversation.