My Snot
by Ben Lyle Bedard
illustration by Alexandria Heather
He was one to tell the entire world, in one painful blast – “Fuck You!” But he was quiet when I asked if he thought anyone gave a shit what he shouted, no matter how painfully. He wanted to be badass – a swaggering, swearing, pissing ode to animosity. His favorite saying was a Metallica-esque “Nothing else matters, man.” Then he usually punched something.
He was entertaining, at his best. Christ, I didn’t have to pay to watch a movie, all I had to do was watch him. He was violent (check), stupid (check), prone to fits of melancholy (check), hopelessly depraved (check), sexually frustrated (check), and irretrievably shallow (check). Damn, name one movie that has all that! I could just watch this Morrison worshipper go about in a constant state of confusion, a state which he baptized “living for the moment, man.”
And exactly what type of entertainment would be in store for me? I’m glad you asked. It’s quite easy to describe because you already know the guy, or at least his type. They seem to be more common than dirt, and, incidentally, just as appetizing. He was that guy who always dove for the ball when it was leagues out of bounds. He was that guy who put the cigar out on his arm. He was that guy who lit his coat on fire, went swimming in the first week of spring in an icy pond, cracked a tooth on a beer bottlecap, ran through the bonfire at that pit party, and numerous other little exercises of ignorance.
I was always under the influence of one drug or another when he was around. How else could I stomach the nuisance? I found he went well with alcohol (the harder, the better), but not with pot. While stoned, he would start spewing out the most ridiculous talk imaginable. In short, he would become philosophical, though I hesitate to call it that. Perhaps whining would be a better term. His deep thoughts began with Def Leppard lyrics and went all the way to Mötley Crüe, with all sorts of moronic stops in between. It was enough to make Jack Handey cringe. Inevitably, he would meander into talk of women or love (I don’t think he knew the difference). You could be absolutely sure that the following words would be used and in this order: fuck, slut, pussy, love, lonely, depressed. It was so damn predictable, it was nearly comical.
Even with alcohol, things were not safe. He might be one of those depressed drunks and bore me to tears with childhood stories of woe. As if we all haven’t experienced shit! As if he was the only person on earth to ever suffer! He would sit there and talk and whine and whine and talk, but all he was really saying was, “Pity me! Pity me! My life sucks because of such and such dreadful occurrence! It’s my parents’ fault! It’s my teachers’ fault!” He was so full of Oprah and American psychobabble, it made you want to vomit.
You might ask at this point why I bothered with this guy, or why I bother to tell you of him. And aren’t I whining? Well, allow me to offer an excuse: He was a high school hanger-on. You know him, I am sure. He’s that guy you used to be friends with, and now you don’t have the heart to tell him to get the fuck out of your life. He’s a sort of sentimental snot on your finger. No matter how rancid he gets, you can never get yourself to flick him off. It’s a sorry story, but a familiar one – Christ, it’s a cliché for crying out loud. We all go around with these hairy, blood-flecked snots on our fingers that we don’t dare flick off. We just hope that no one notices, although they always do.
We always have to give excuses for them, don’t we? They leave, and we tell our friends with a tired shrug, “Friend from high school.” And they nod quietly because their snots are hidden behind their back, and they know that someday you might catch a glimpse of them. It’s quite a little dance we do with our hands hidden, isn’t it?
I’ve been using the pronoun “he,” but snots come in both genders. The she-snots are worse, I think, because they naturally come in groups. You get a whole lump of snots when you’re unlucky enough to have she-snots. What makes them even more detestable is the fact that it is impossible, personality-wise, to differentiate one she-snot from another. They have one distinct group she-snot personality, and God forbid that you disagree with them or they will make your life a perfect little hell as they pester you mercilessly. You can actually feel the she-snots burning a hole in your finger.
My personal snot was always showing up unannounced. He had an uncanny perception of when it would be the most inconvenient to visit. What’s worse, he usually was drunk and with a veritable flock of snots. They would turn my room into a damn mucous party wherein I would have to feign interest in such delightful subjects as who Mary fucked and why. And when I didn’t act happy as hell to see him? Well then, he was always quick to remind me of the guy I used to be and act all pissed because I had done what every normal person has to do. Namely, change.
He was critical of every choice I ever made, as if his was the only life to lead. Yeah, “living for the moment,” my ass. More like “live for the weekend ’cause I work all week at some plastic factory.”
Any snots out there? Are you reading this? Can you hear me? Flick yourself off, and do everyone a favor. Of course, any true snot wouldn’t even realize that he/she was a snot. I’m wasting my breath on that one. Oh well, I tried to give a huge hand shiver all around; you have to give me that.
And why do I tell you about snots, dear reader? Because I lately had the good fortune to be rid of mine in the most melodramatic of ways.
He was killed in a car accident.
