Mon Chien

I thought my crew chief’s speech on proper behavior (have I mentioned he used to teach etiquette in school?) would be the last feedback I’d get on my person and its behavior for a while. Usually, this kind of blunt feedback is rare and reserved for close friends and unusually strong characters.
Turns out, I was pretty damn wrong.

In a cascade of unasked but not unwelcome observations, several friends have noted that I am, in fact, a pretty rude person. Apparently I bark at bartenders, make inappropriate jokes, and tend to offend people without seeming to care.

Climax of this recent commentary barrage was my friend taking me aside the day after I had had dinner with him and his wife. I had already sensed that the cruder end of my jokes went unappreciated so I kept the count down to 2 over the evening, and tried to stay as respectful as possible during my attempt to explain that girls who wear high heels and clothes that can’t get dirty generally aren’t my type, an audience my host apparently identified with.

The discussion lasted a couple minutes too long and 2 was too many, so the next day I was told in private that I desperately need to learn some manners. I succeeded in being passionately disliked by his wife, someone who first boasted that she was far more hard-core than she looked and then got deeply offended by a joke that vaguely involved a sexual reference.

It’s probably clear that I disagree with who’s to blame, but since everybody has been telling me I’m a fucking peasant lately, I suppose it must be true. By now, I’ve accepted that and the next step is seeing what I’ll do with it, if anything.

Qui m’aime, aime mon chien. So I come over as a little crude once in a while. Personally, I can imagine worse traits. I value insight, reliability and respect a hell of a lot more than vocabulary, and precisely because I work so hard to improve these, it frustrates me that I am not judged upon those instead of my table manners.

Ever since I was 15, I spent my days in boarding school, in the army, and as a stage builder. Considering the other individuals I still know from those periods, I think I came out pretty fucking okay. I’m sorry if my language offends, but I see no need to judge my character based on it. I say ‘please’ and ‘thanks’ more than I ever did and I respect my conversation partner so that I don’t interrupt or provoke- why do some insist on that much more?

The friend in question gave me his bike today. He didn’t need it and I did, so he simply gave it to me. I asked him several times if he wanted anything for it, which he didn’t. But when I said, “If there’s anything I can repay you with…” he answered, “Anything? learn some damn manners around the ladies.”
I nearly choked on the word “ladies” but I guess, in the end, he might have a point. It won’t hurt watching my language a little. My guess is that by “ladies” he meant his wife specifically, so I’ll start there- although I don’t expect to be invited for dinner again, any time soon.

It’s a pretty awesome bike, after all.


“You scare the life out of me. I wish you would just go away.”

I don’t remember who said this, but it was said onstage by one of the world’s greatest artists á la Bob Dylan (whom I find overrated). Basically, he was plainly and bluntly confessing that he hated his fans and he would love his job, if it wasn’t for them.

It might seem an overly strong statement, but I know how he feels. How he can’t say or do a damn thing without someone pointing out some political incorrectness, or give his opinion without being judged a monster.

You see, I used to love writing. I used to love to curse, swear and dump my unsalted opinion on the internet, where it would float away into mediocrity like a turd in the kiddy pool. It was my way of releasing the inner pressure, of reflecting on the present and remembering the past. It was my way. And it was good.

And then, people started reading. Originally I liked that fact, there’s a little kid in me who wants to be rich and famous as much as the next person. There was a time when I would get over 200 page views per day, especially when the subject was sex. Nowadays I get an average of 5, and that’s 5 too many. Because 4 of them will be close acquaintances.

What the shit is the reason of writing when you write nothing you couldn’t just say? What’s the point in voicing an opinion if those who don’t want to hear it, take the effort to read it? Many of my friends don’t even bother to ask my opinion on subjects I write about, because they think they know it already. In reality, I can’t even write down half of my actual ideas because it is bound to offend someone, somewhere and I will lose another friend.

You scare the life out of me. I wish you would all just go away.

That way no one reading this will know who “that friend” is who I had to support through her abortion, or the name and face of that guy I still owe a black eye- if you aren’t him to begin with. There is literally nothing I can write here that I truly care about, precisely because I care about it and I don’t want to throw my friends’ private lives open to those who can read between the lines and fill in the details that are left out to keep some form of anonymity.

It’s hard not being an asshole. We swallow or take back thoughts like spoken words, so we would turn out a better person. Despite this, it’s good to vent them somewhere, and I’m fresh out of places to do just that.
Does this mean the end of Vermin’s nest? It just might. It’s no fun writing if I can’t include a single heartfelt ‘fuck’ without someone trying to fucking raise me as if I’m a fucking child.

I’m sorry, I try to be nice, but there’s just no better way for me to put it:
Fuck Off.
You scare the life out of me. I wish you would all just go away.

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