All ‘Bout Spider

Spider again. I’m still gettin’ used to this sharing thing. I’m glad for the love, but if I don’t answer y’all’s comments much, don’t take it personal. I’m not used to talking into space to whoever wants to listen. I’m not used to talking much at all–‘cept to those who know me. And that number is few and far between. 

I can’t even believe Res did this blog shit. She doesn’t talk to no one except me. Hell, even then it usually was like pulling teeth. Don’t get me wrong, the girl can run her mouth like a cheerleader on coke, but it’s usually not about much at all. Then she came here and poured out her heart and soul to all you fuckers. Yeah, it pisses me off. And, Res, we’re gonna have some things to square when you come back. You know what I’m talkin’ about, this–and that other thing.

I guess it’s ’bout time I told y’all a little something about me. Name’s Spider, you got that already. The other name I had before was given to me by a woman whose main purpose in life was to find the next bar, the next stash of gutter glitter and the next winner with a dick and handy supply of cash to finance it all. Didn’t matter if he hit her. Didn’t matter if he hit me. So, you can see where that name doesn’t mean shit to me anymore.

The winning bachelor for my mom’s hand turned out to be Steve, a jackass drunk who got together with her when I was fourteen. He did all of the above, once cracking me in the face with a beer bottle for taking one of his smokes. Mom did nothing. She was too afraid he’d up and split. It must’ve been my fault. I must’ve provoked it. Stop being such a pain-in-the-ass, Spider. You know, you’ve seen it on every cheesy-ass Hallmark movie going. I guess writers need to get their ideas from real life at some point.

Teachers really didn’t care. By the time Steve started slamming on me, I was already THAT kid–the one destined for jail. I guess thinking that made it easier for them to ignore the bruises. Since it was my fate to go to prison, I decided I’d go ahead and earn it. I smoked–still do. I drank–still do. Decided high school sucked. I pretty much ignored all my classes until I got tired of it all and left after my second stint at tenth grade. I managed to find jobs here and there. Some were legal. Others weren’t.

Then, some shit went down at home, and I had to go away for a while. When I got back–I guess I should say, ‘Out’—I found more trouble through a roommate who dealt. He made it easy. I got into heroin and I dragged Res down with me. We chased the dragon for two years. Then, people started dying. All around us, friends, associates–they just died. The party stopped. We cleaned up. I retched and barfed and shook and moaned while Res sat there holding my head, looking like she’d decided to stop eating spinach. I woulda been pissed if she hadn’t been so nice. Lots of chicks will come around to get high, but not many will stick around to mop up the puke. 

After I’d been clean a while, I ran into an old high school buddy. We’d had the same problem with school, not fitting in, not liking learnin’ shit we knew we would have zero use for in the real world. We both sat and drew in our binders while whatever teacher stood in front of us blabbering on about whatever. He remembered that. He remembered my work. And he said he could hook me up with his tattoo shop ’cause they were looking for an apprentice. I didn’t have much else to do at the time, so I said yeah. 

I figured I’d be there a month and quit. Almost did. Didn’t like people tellin’ me to scrub the nasty toilet or run and buy cigarettes and sandwiches for the rest of them. But, I did like the drawing. And once they let me practice on a pig’s foot, I was sold. I choked down more words in that time. Shit, I nearly severed my tongue biting it when I thought I just couldn’t take their shit anymore. 

But, I made it through. Now I’ve got a good number of clients and I’m getting a pretty solid rep. I’m even thinking of going solo. “The Web” tattoo shop. “Spider’s Lair.” Okay, maybe I’ll wait until my girl gets back to decide on a name. She’s better at that shit than me.

Now you assholes know all about me. Take it as the truth, or be a disbelieving shithead and go away. I really don’t care.

Res, girl, Christmas is coming. I don’t want to be the only one punting lawn Santas.

Call me.