Ever wonder why Dracula never had a reflection? I always thought it was what it was. He just doesn't. Plain and simple. Move along. However, a few years ago I read that the man called Dracula was actually a very ugly man. He possesed the power to change his outward appearance at any given time. This was very true. Dracula could fool everyone but himself. Every time he looked at his face in the mirror he would see his true worth. He was a dark, evil creature.
He could no longer deal with the truth. So, he had a witch cast a spell of some sort to relieve him of this discomfort and internal anxiety. Never again would he be able to view his reflection.

I drink, folks. I won't lie to ya. I wait until everything's done and then I blow my fucken brains out. I mean, every once and a while you have to fucken drink. Sometimes you have to think about the women that broke your heart and say,
"Oh, make that TWO FIFTHS OF JACK DANIELS!!!!"
I know everyone's trying to be straight now like these rock n' roll fucken pussies. Yeah, I watch MTV. They have that whole "Rock Against Drugs" campaign, which is basically just a bunch of rockers who got wasted once, slid into a school bus and killed twenty children. And within the face of license they make public service announcements. Yeah, no shit!?
I love these guys, they're like,
"Hello. Listen, don't get caught with drugs or you'll have to do a commercial just like this one."
Yeah, I think I got the message. The message is don't get caught.
Rock against drugs. Someone was high when the came up with this campaign. It's the same thing as saying, "Christians Against Christ."
Rock created drugs. What the fuck are these people talking about.

I miss my dad. There, I said it. That son of a bitch died six years ago to this very day. His name was Patrick Dundee. He was was forty-six years old. He was a CPA. A historian. A writer. A loving husband. A fighter. I was his boy. He loved me more than his own life. He told me this almost every night up until the day he died. He died in his home, in his favorite chair. This was what he wanted. My mother and sister and I never moved him. We held his wake right there in our living room. This was a typical Irish thing to do. All of my family came to pay their respects. We cried. We laughed. We drank. I took two hits of ecstasy. I couldn't deal with the pain. The sadness overtook me.
Over the past six years I've been fuckin shit up. I drink. Heavily. I've struggled with drugs. I lost many friends because of this. I can't carry a relationship. I was kicked out of St. Peter's College. My dad graduated from this school, by the way. I was recently told that my father would puke if he saw what his son has become. Maybe he would. I don't know. I just don't know.

I read Saunders little piece. Very entertaining. Very thought provoking. However, I don't have a single friend who is a "Manly Man" or even a "Girly Girl" for that matter. These fucken men, these, macho mother fuckers make me want to vomit. These jerk-offs walk around, flexing their muscles in their skin-tight armani exchange t-shirts, tight, diesel jeans with matching diesel shoes, and the most ridiculous fucken hair cuts I have ever seen in my life. These guys all seem to be obsessed with "working out" as well. Which is absolutely fantastic! I work out too! However, I don't find the need to talk about it for ours on end with my buddies. I hit the weights hard for an hour or two and forget about it. I don't watch, "The Game," either. Whatever that game may be, I am proud of the fact that I have never once said,
"Honey, I'm watching the game."
I say,
"Fuck the game, let's fuck! Come on, right here on the floor, you and me!"
I have been labeled a "fag" all of my life. Since I never took an interest in sports all that much, and I rather enjoy taking care of myself, I guess I did come across as a homosexual.
Everyone thought so. My dad thought I was a queer. I know he did. My ma has her suspicions. I know she does. My grandfather used to call me "Sweety." Trust me, it wasn't said in the loving way. I hate that mothafucker. He was always proud of the fact that he was a "man's man." He was a Marine when he was in his youth. He grew up to be a wife beating, child abusing/molesting sack a'shit. I told him once that I would slit his throat if I ever saw him again.
That pussy nearly shit his pants. Hahahaha.
I've been pulling my hair out almost all of my life trying to figure out just what a man truly is. I don't fight. I believe I'm too smart for that. I'm not a hard-ass. I'm sensitive. I hide it, thoug. I'm afraid of being stepped on one more time. You see, people mistake kindness for weakness. However, I know the difference.

Mikey. Mikey is my best friend on all of god's green earth. If there was a ever a more complex relationship between two people, I'd love to hear about it. Mikey dated my sister on and off again for over three years. The first night I met Mikey I was drunk and high and practically naked. My mom was in the middle of interagating the poor bastard. I had just fell out of bed.
"What's up,?" I said. I tried to shake Mikey's hand but I missed on the first attempt. Everything was a blur. After several tries, I finally got a hold of his hand.
"I'm Kathy. I'm Erin and Patrick's brother," is what I was told I said later on. Pathetic!
Anyway, my mother seemed to be suspect of this guy. I was no help. I don't think I even had my pants on.
Mikey and my sister wound up going out that night, afterall. He had her home early. He was very respectable. Responsible. He was...a gentleman. The complete opposite of myself.
I remember going back to bed later on that night and crying myself to sleep. All I could think about was that scared shitless boy/man sitting at my kitchen table trying desperately to defend himself. Mikey was wearing khakis and a short- sleeved, white, oxford shirt, tucked in. His hair was perfectly combed and he was clean shaven. He was the epitome of everything I hated in a human being. Still, I kept crying. It was that look, that look in his eyes that bothered me most of all.
My head felt several sizes too big the next morning. That cold sensation in my stomach shortly followed. I stumbled out of bed and got ready for another 12-14 hour day at work.
I had forgotten about what had transpired only hours before. However, I hadn't forgotten completely.
About two weeks later I went to a show at the Stone Pony in Asbury Park. It was the "Fiend Fest." One of my favorite bands, The Misfits, were headlining. It was an all-day event.
When the Misfits finally took the stage, the whole place went ape-shit, including myself.
I was pushing and shoving, screaming the lyrics, and crowd surfing.
Then, the wierdest thing happened. I saw a very familiar face amongst the crowd of punkers.
It looked like the guy who took my sister out just a few weeks before.
"No fucken way," I thought to myself.
But, it was him. He still had on his khakis and oxford shirt even. Still, he was pushing and shoving and screaming just like the rest of us.
I don't know what exactly came over me then, but I began shoving my way through the crowd in order to get near this guy. When I finally got to him I grabbed him hard by his shirt. Mikey turned his head toward me and those eyes of his became as big as saucers. I grabbed him from behind his head and pulled him closer to me to where our foreheads were touching. Mikey grabbed the back of my head and we began screaming the lyrics into one another's faces.
We broke apart and resumed jumping up and down, sreaming at the top of our lungs, and throwing kicks and punches until the show finally ended.
Ever since that night at The Fiend Fest, Mikey and I have been the best of friends. It's so wierd, though. We're night and day. Mikey's straight as an arrow, smart as hell, and he knows just what it is he wants to do on his tour of this earth. I'm lost. I'm running scared.

I hate jocks. I developed this hatred in my junior year of high school. Those fucks thought they were so smooth. They got all the girls. They never seemed to have a problem with schoolwork.
They seemed to pass through life as if life itselsf were some devine gift.
I remember being the skinny, little fuck. I wanted to be a part of what was happening. I wanted to be the life of the party. I wanted to be the star quarterback getting blown by the hottest cheerleader in the locker room before the big game against Hudson.
Now, I was an athlete in high school as well. I played lacrosse and ice hockey. I made the varsity team in both sports when I was a freshman. I was good. I knew how to play the games. However, I never managed to make it into the limelight.
One night lying in bed, I came to the conclusion that none of these dreams of athletic glory and sexual perks that would inevitably follow would ever come true for me. I was sixteen years old.
The very next day I awoke refreshed, reborn. I went to class. I paid attention. I studied hard and I played hard. A few chicks even came my way during the last two years of school.
I never did wind up being the star and none of the girls that gave me the time a day were named prom queen. I didn't give a fuck. I still don't.