Just now, a 40-year-old me came and tapped me from behind while I was walking along the dark curbside.
"Hey kid, I know you're having a tough time right now."
"Well, what do you expect. You've BEEN there. I mean, here. Whatever."
I tried to walk away.
"Slow down kid. Take those heavy footsteps lightly. Take a deep breath for once, and look around you. Ask yourself. Are you that pathetic? I won't give you the answer as you already know."
Trying to act cool, I lit myself a fag. Inhale, exhale.
"..'the fuck you're talking? Oh, come on. I'm chill like a fucking tomato."
"Look, I know you're torn. Hurt. Yada-yada. But remember, scars are meant to be permanent. You gotta let yourself bruised and wounded, eventually the scars will toughen you up. They won't heal, and that's good about them - to remind you every time. You know.. you're.."
I kicked his balls in, and I stabbed him with a nail clipper to death. I am SALT.
"Shut, the, fuck, up."
Wait, did I just murdered a 40-year-old me?
I don't give a fuck. Because I am strong, and I am bad-ass. And hell if I'm lucky enough to be alive when I reached 40, I won't be wasting my fucking time to go back and make it up to the earlier me.
I am Sal.. no, I'm Moe.
I need two cornettos now.