A letter to the kid who broke into my neighbor's car last Thursday.
You suck, kid. And I don't really care that you're a drug addict. I'm one too. You owe Mrs. Jones a new windshield and an apology. You should have seen her crying when she came outside Friday morning. Poor woman. She worked so hard for that car.
"Work?" you say.
Well kid, it's an English word. It's defined as "mental or physical activity as a means of earning income." The place one goes to work is called a "job." And as a drug addict in this economy, you're gonna need two. Maybe even three if you plan to keep getting those bad tattoos and making your earlobes bigger.
I guess I'm old fashioned, but in my day a man had to earn his drugs. That's why God made so many restaurants for us to work at.
If you're alive 10 years from now and talking about your recovery at the middle school, maybe I'll see things differently. But for now, you suck. The neighborhood's not safe any more. Cars are only the beginning. Then it's breaking and entering, assault and armed robbery.
Sorry if your dad wasn't around. Mine either. Sorry if your mom's crazy. Mine too. But please stop fucking up the world. A lot of nice people are trying to live here.