Oh, sure, it starts out innocently enough, the rush of adrenaline as you bare your calf to fifth-grade boys. But it isn’t enough. And Liquid Paper and Sharpies haven’t been invented yet, so you can’t huff them in the calm quiet of a restroom stall. But rebellion is in your blood, and you seek the thrill.
Soon you’re smoking Pall Malls to see who can get esophageal cancer first .
By college, you’ve gone all Sister Wives.
You’ve lost your self-respect. You consider relocating to Salt Lake City. But then Dorko McGoober here kicks you out of the tribe. You’re alone. All you have are your vices. You avoid your grandmother’s phone calls. You stop taking multivitamins. You rat your hair. You accept a date from a greaser, and it all goes downhill from there.
He dumps you after three weeks. You turn to the dark world of roller derby.
But your mood swings are unmanageable. You get into fights with that hussy, Rhonda. You have to be pried apart. The manager tells you they have to let you go; you’re no good for business. You’re washed up, kid.
And then you hit rock bottom. You take a job as an “entertainer” at Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club. You tell yourself it’s just temporary.
You look in the mirror, and suddenly 50 years have passed. Where did they go? What do you do now?
Don’t give away free milk, ladies. It’s a downward spiral.
I Don't Get It 