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There are lots of people in this wide ol world that want to see me laid out- Bludgeoned by some frat boy’s knuckle or canceled by some mommy blogger on a nicotine stained keyboard. And while my survival radar has, unfortunately, become more keen over time, there is no group to which I am more wary than the teenage girl. Yes, you heard it well. I am quite afraid of little girls. And while my illusory masculinity has taken a bit of a bruising over my career, allow me to explain myself. There is no demographic more diligent than the teenage girl. They always know where I am, they always know who I am, and they are also responsible for WHY I am. Take this duelist as example. She had thought herself the rogue while riding the escalator on her slow descent into hell. Yes, I was going to the same destination, but we always figured that didn’t we? Both Dante and Virgil here couldn’t help but stifle their demonic wails as they spied me, quick to pull out her phone and capture the whole event for a ~whopping~ 47 likes on her personal Instagram. A shame the denim couldn’t hide the overwhelming musk of sweat and mischief that filled the central London tube entrance, and my nose had smelled something funny coming from her general direction. Her friend’s lokinous side eye and hand cupped to her mouth as if breathing into a phantom paper bag was all too telling. I knew I was in for a fight. I readied my pistol and fired first. They say her ghost still haunts that station, her muddled peppa squeals signaling her next young male victim. Hope to see you again when Im back on the river styx. #cameraduels
My father once told me that the key to great driving was ensuring the safety of myself and my passengers. Now, behold the fatherless fanatics: car in motion, eyes and hands off the wheel and road. There are times when I am truly in awe of the bravery of human sacrifice. A soldier risks all to save a fallen comrade. A group of righteous protestors fight oppression within a fascist regime. An old woman with dementia walks across a 4 way intersection to the local grocery. THIS, is not one of those times. In fact, a picture of ~a sprouse~ driving a car is so low down the life and limb foodchain, I am almost honored by the attempt. But I digress. You may be asking yourself, "Cole, aren't you taking a picture while driving too?" Yes, yes I certainly am. And typing this caption too. And while I was stopped when I took this, even if I was in motion I had already resigned my existence to another plane. If they play for keeps, so do I. The screaming and giggling that echoed from their car was a grim prologue to an ~auto~biography I should be writing: "I killed two people who probably shouldn't breed anyway," (working title), or at least the opening sequence to "red asphalt 2." Now if they did, indeed, collide with Darwin (because of me) I would have felt a tad guilty, I admit. But to be fair Oprah made us take a pledge for this exact reason, and so I think she should probably feel more ashamed. I hope Satan likes the photo.