Moneyshot the Stars

When I was younger, my father used to wake my whole family up at some ungodly hour on some random ass day. By day I mean morning, by morning I mean three-the-fuck thirty a.m. Trauma-wise, waking a kid that early is definitely within in the range of telling them that Santa Claus isn’t real and ignorantly not locking the door so they can have a nightmare, need a hug, come to you and witness that moment, that horrible, horrible moment… that money shot moment.

In any case, in the end, it was kind of worth it to see those streaks in the sky. And it was because of those Downy soft greens, those o’ so brilliant oranges, and those regally royal blues that for the next few years of my life I wanted to be an astronaut. From the 3rd grade on, all I could ever do was stare out into the night, imagining, playing on fields without gravity. From there my tiny lids would dip, dip, dip close and I would truly live and be amongst the stars.

I had many, many dreams, all on distant planets, all within in that beautiful void. They were never the same, there was always so much to discover. Like Planet G-antz, a world so close to Earth they’re almost conjoined, a globe covered in mounds so high they can be seen from outer space, the home of one of the most insidious forces of evil EVER: the GIANT ANT MEN of G-antz! Those bastards were so crafty…

It is as this time that I would like to explain my irrational fear of those freaky-little-swarm-over-a-human-baby-and-eat-its-flesh abominations of all that is Good and Holy. Somewhere, at some distant point in my life, I was playing in my sandbox, a four-by-four realm of wonder and phenomenon, when it happened. It is like the first rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about it. The most I can reveal is that it was preceded by a same day, double feature of “A Bug’s Life” and “Antz” and ends in tears, eventual emohair*, and the hospital. And a therapist bill.

Moving on, I spent the whole of my shining public school career preparing my self for my journey to the stars. It wasn’t until that one fateful day that I learned that my GPA, that all important, life-giving, piece-of-shit, bureaucratic-circle-jerk tool of judgment was just wasn’t going to cut it.

Looking back now, everything worked out just fine. I just sent my father a text message even though it’s three-the-fuck thirty in the morning. It said:

(518): Wasted. Watching meteors. Most awesome idea I ever had. I can see 2 for every 1 with mah double vision. Beat that childhood memories.






Emohair – that gelly thing perched atop emochildren and emotards, most are unsure if it is hair or some hair accessorie akin to that bump thing you can get off TV.

Emochild – a person within the ages of 7 and 18 who dresses in dark clothes that are adorned with obnoxious band logos, spikes, and potentially Ed hardy. If another individual is dresses like an emochild but, is in fact, above the age of 18, then he or she is known as an “emotard.”

Emotard – 1. a person who writes My Chemical Romance fan fiction and wears wristbands even though they don’t cut themselves. 2. any person over the age of 18 that has hair dyed “shadow black” or any derivation of and for whatever-the-fuck reason has a My Chemical Romance*

My Chemical Romance – 1. a band whose diehard fans are all pre-pubescent emotards (see above) who should be sossed* 2. A guilty pleasure

Soss – the act of scoffing on sight as in “I sossed that emotard the other day” or “I just go to the mall to soss emotards, that’s what a college diploma is for.”