Runner's World

A cool sanguine breeze blows softly through hair and finger tips. The scenery passes by like frames on a movie reel. Sidewalks lend their backs to punished feet. The pounding of footsteps on concrete makes the only sound that filters through. The only sound that matters. Thump. Thump. Thump. The cadence remains steady, strong and unyielding. Thump. Thump. The pace quickens with each anxious step while muscles grown and stretch under the added strain. Feet can't see the finish line. Thump. A jumble of half-steps quickly decreasing in regularity, dot the pavement. Finally, the sound of footsteps stops altogether and a different sound fills the void. Harsh, raspy breathing, labored and painful, makes a plea for clemency. The lungs will find respite in time.

A man stands alone on an empty sidewalk, hands on his knees and sweat dripping from his brow. He wants to sit but knows he should stay standing. His body sways beneath his loosely fitting, diversely shaded t-shirt. His red flustered face is etched with the lines of a difficult task. His feet burn like he was standing on the hot coals of a tribal initiation rite. Bathed in fire, he stands, righting himself to become parallel with the trees surrounding him. He turns and wills stationary legs to simple movement in the direction of home. He will find respite in time.


And that day is today my friends. My one day off from my new adventure in under achievement. As you made have guessed by the intro, I'm running. And not just running for the sake of running. I'm running because as of Monday, I'm participating in a marathon. To be more specific, the Marine Corp Marathon in Arlington, VA. Sign-ups don't open till may but that doesn't mean I can't start training now. I'm not getting any younger you know. The marathon runs at the end of October and if I'm going to do it, I want to be well prepared. That gives me six months to train, which is what I was hoping for. Even still, with proper training it's not going to be easy.

I'm hoping that by announcing I'm going to run the marathon, it'll be a little extra motivation to actually stick with it. No one likes to be made a liar, except for people who enjoy lying. I'm not one of those people. Nope. I'm just the president of Nepal. Hopefully, this post is the cherry on top of the guilt sunday forcing me to stick with my goal and honor my word. So, please, question me about my progress. One, because I like to tell people and talk about it. But most importantly, to keep me accountable.

I'm thinking about doing weekly updates on my progress. I'm not sure if anyone who reads this, all one of you, would care, but it's something to write about and you're just trying to break the monotony of the work day anyway. Plus, it can't be worse than any of the other shit I write, right?

So, I'll give you the update for this week, since training started on Monday. First off, let me say that I'm fucking tired. My legs are screaming every time I ask them to return blood to my heart, much less take a step. There's this constant ache going on down there that I haven't felt since High School. Running four day in a row just about killed me. I can't remember the last time I did that or felt my legs. So far, the mileage total for the week is sitting at 7.75, not counting cross training on Monday, with another 3 to go tomorrow. The program I'm sticking with is setup by weeks, with Sunday being the long run day and each weekday running a short distance run of 3 to 6 miles or having an off day. I skipped the Sunday run this past week because I didn't want to start training with a 6 mile run. Who wants to run 6 miles right off the bat? No one, that's who. However, I will have to run a 6 miler this coming Sunday and I'm not looking forward to it.

The biggest discouragement so far came today, my one day off this week. I decided to take a break from work and map out some of my running routes online. I found a couple of good websites, the best one being walkjogrun.net. A cool website with satellite images and maps from Google that'll calculate your exact mileage on a given course if you uses enough way-points. The site will be even cooler once you can save your route to a personal account. The disappointing thing was that I was estimating my routes to be longer than they actually are. My normal 3 mile loop was more like 2.5 miles and my previous long run loop, which I thought was around 8 miles, is actually closer to 5. I'll have to run that loop on a weekday in a couple weeks. Not to mention a mammoth loop that I've never ran but always considered to be my Everest is only 5 miles long. Five measly miles, I couldn't believe. I seems a lot longer when you're driving it. I'm going to have to run that loop with a mile added on somewhere to meet my Sunday requirement in two days. Seems pretty daunting. I'm not even going to try to kid myself into thinking Sunday's run is going to be fun. By mid-June I'm going to be doing that loop twice and that's just the start of the ramp up to the race. I can't even imagine right now.

I've got to try not to think about things too much, as it's depressing. Once this get easier, if that ever happens, I'll let myself look ahead but for now I need to keep my vision on the clear and present. 26.2 miles seems like a long time and distance away but I have to start reeling it in now. Wish me luck and I'll let you know how Sunday and next week go, next week.

Mom, Your Little Boy's Got Problems

People do stupid things all the time. In fact, someone somewhere is doing something stupid right now. And no, it's not me (kind of). But I can think of a ton of stupid things I've done lately. For example, getting plastered at the bar on Friday night, then agreeing to do one finally shot before leaving, only to puke it all up a little while later in the wee hours of the morning. That's stupid. But it was also fun. Not the puking part itself, but getting blitzed was enjoyable while it lasted. That's the same way I felt about my last post, though I regretted it slightly less the day after. It was a stupid post bordering on manic insanity. I know people are a person is worried about me now. Therefore, for Kristen's sake, I'll lay down a quick explanation of how the post before this one came into being include motivations and plot twists.

The people you should really blame are the guys in the band Armor for Sleep and their song, "Stay on the Ground". There's a lyric in the song that goes: "I started looking out for myself today". Seems innocent enough, right? Well, I decided to combine this line with my current, flavor of the month favorite, retarded saying, "Go have sex with yourself". I'm not sure where I got it from, but for the past couple weeks I've been working into everyday conversations as much as possible. It's especially effective on the basketball court. Feel free to use it any time, though. So the final product of my bored incoherent daydreaming was, "I started having sex with myself today", i.e. the title of my last post. If you play the song and sing along, using my alternate lyric, the beginning of each verse then reads:

I started having sex with myself today
but then I stopped cause I don't care

This is where the lack of mental function really becomes evident. The misfiring synapses in my brain interpreted these two lines as being extremely funny. I still can't sing them without laughing. See mom, I'm not getting better. Your little boy is still fucked up. I've been signing these two lines over and over in my head so frequently I eventually convinced myself it would be a good idea to work them into a post. Another flash of pure brilliance followed and I thought I would use the first line as the title, because seeing it on techno or active rss would be funny, and I'd end the post with the last line.

As you may have concluded by now, my plan was obviously flawed. To have an ending, a post must have a beginning and middle in addition to a title. Thus, as my plans often do, I was left to improvise the beginning and middle with little to nothing to go on. Somehow, I came up with the nonsensical moronically illiterate story and description you see today. Was it a failed attempt at something wonderful? Not hardly. It was a failed attempt at something stupid and pathetic that no one in their right mind would have attempt anyway, much less thought of. So, to recap; poor sense of humor + bad idea + the writing prowess of a 3rd grader = a post that even Corky would be ashamed to call his own.

What's past is past and therefore I'm going to try to forget this ever happened. Kind of like most events in my life. I know it would make you feel better if I said that I'll never write something like that again, but I can't do it. I'm retarded. It's science. Me saying I'm not going to write anything stupid is like a Crohn's patient saying they'll never take another shit. It's just not possible. I can tell you that I'll try to limit your exposure to my messed up thought processes and "humor". I think I'll have to start a private journal. I can see it now. Me, huddled over my journal, flashlight and colt 45 in hand, reading the asinine things I wrote a year ago and laughing so hard I'm pissing myself. God, I can't wait. Someone get me a pencil and paper!

Started Having Sex with Myself Today

I've only been doing it a few days but it's changed the rest of my life for the better in so many ways. I've experienced deeper more restful sleep, a heightened sense of hearing and smell, and gentler more satisfying bowl movements. I can speak to dogs and horses using only a microphone and my voice. Just yesterday, I found myself floating above New York City, suspended in mid-air by the sex with myself. Finding my true inner self has been the most rewarded dividend.

You don't have to have physical sex with yourself (read masturbate), though it can help to solve complicated closeness issues. The pillar of the program is a mental exercise much like meditation. A mental tantra if you will. It's all about a form of loving yourself that expands the minds and lifts you to a higher level of consciousness. Rubbing and kneading your mind. Working it up into a hot lather then cooling if off in a sexy waterfall. Playfully teasing and tickling and giggling with your inner child.

The program starts subtly by envisioning your penis or vagina, whichever you have. Now, concentrate on that image, letting everything else around you fade away. Remember, you should only think about what you have going on in the nether reaches below. We are trying to have sex with ourselves here, not with anyone else. Once you have the image firmly ingrained, begin to move it around in a counterclockwise circular motion. It's very important that the image moves counterclockwise. If it moves clockwise, your man or lady bits will explode with the force of a thousand suns. No one said this was going to be easy, but good things in life rarely are. It will all be worth it in the end, I promise. Once you have the penis or vagina spinning, take mental bites of it at positions ten and two on a clock. Allow your mind to absorb and draw sustenance from each delicious bite. Allow the bite to melt in your mind's mouth and roll it around with your mental tongue. Swallow and regurgitate the bite six times, then spit it back into place with rest of your private area. See, don't you feel more whole and at peace already? Just wait until a week from now when you're scaling Everest using nothing but the back of a shurpa and sex with yourself. If you take the time and have sex with yourself every day for the rest of your life, you're sure to become as cool and happy as Bob Barker, who invented this technique in the first place. A true American hero.

If you want more information, google "Sex with myself" at work. Now that I've written about sex with myself, I think I'm going to stop because I don't care.

Disclaimer: Having sex with yourself may cause temporary blindness, hairy palm, extreme abdominal pains from gas and shame and gayness. Please consult your local rabbi immediately should any of these occur.

Shapes

Shapes have been with us since the beginning of time. We learn the basics during our formative years of childhood. The square and circle became our closest friends. We played and laughed together, forming simple pictures and drawings with the assistance of the ever present line. Eventually we progressed and discovered through the gracious teachings of "Learn to Draw Dinosaurs" that everything can be drawn using combinations of the simple shapes and lines we knew so well. Eventually, as we got older and regular shapes became everyday boredom, we discovered shapes that weren't so accessible and friendly. Shapes that held meaning and mystery. We named them symbols and began to identify with the things they represented. Though they fell on both sides of the virtuous line, some were nothing short of evil. The swastika and the double integral sign being the worst.

We find shapes new shapes and combinations everyday. Some that draw us in, spark the imagination and challenge the mind. Some repulse and confuse us. I ran into the latter today in the bathroom. It didn't repulse me, though if it had been made by the hand(?) of another I may have been taken aback. It was a crooked piece of shit. And not just a bent piece. That wouldn't be news worthy. Nope, it was misshapen like a knot in the handle of a wooden walking stick. There was a bulge in my shit that made it resemble a tiny bit of lightning. A perfect deviation from the given path, an apex and finally a return to the straight and narrow. Needless to say, I was more than a little confused and upset about the ordeal.

We've all used those play-dough masher things. The ones where you put the play-dough in a tube, push down on the handle and force the play-dough through a mold to form shaped play-dough strings. Never in all my years have I pushed the play-dough and had it come out with a lump like that, regardless of the mold. I just can't get my head around the physics of it. If that's what the stuff coming out of me looks like, think how bad my insides must look. I shutter at the thought. However, on the bright side, I might try to start forming other shapes like stars, cursive "r's" and cheetahs and passing it off as art. I'm not ashamed to be famous for that. Everything else has failed to get me fame and notoriety, why not give my ass a shot?

Spring Fervor

I'm not feeling very funny right now. Though you may not have realized in some of my writing, I was trying to be funny. If you didn't notice, stop reading after this sentence and forget you ever read anything. I'll pretend like nothing happened and we can go on living our lives in denial and shame. But really, I'm just too damn tired to be funny. Too damn tired to think or be creative or move my left pinkie toe. It's not one of those tired of life things either. It's a literal physical, body can't break down any more carbs/protein/fat to produce energy, just want to go to bed and not wake up for days tired.

I decided that, since it was a nice spring-like day and the weather said it would remain so for the rest of the week, I'd take up running and working out again. As of now, it feels like a monstrous mistake. Maybe I should have taken it a bit easier, but if I had reduced the cadence of my legs by any measurable amount I would have been walking - not a fast speed-walker walk either, just a regular stroll. It was sad. Children laughed as I sloughed by and babies raced past my lumbering body with unsettling frequency. It really is amazing how much the body will regress in two months. Now I know where jello comes from.

Before winter decided to arrive fashionably late, joining the party like the loud drunken fool of a guest you're trying to ignore as they dance on the table tops, I was actually fit. Or at least some form of. It wasn't a throw back to my High School days, but it was something at least. I was working out every weekday. I was running eight miles on Sunday. Everything was right with the world. Then the world froze. I can be crazy and I've done some of the most idiotic things known to man. However, running in subfreezing temperature with subzero wind chills is not one of the stupid things I will be doing. Running on a treadmill isn't much of an option either. I despise them for the simple fact that they give me vertigo when I get off. I step off, my feet stop moving and the room continues to lurch forward. After righting myself, the dizziness continues accompanied by a splitting headache. Just walking for ten minutes on one at rehab as a warm up was enough to get me a little tipsy.

The good thing is I didn't gain any weight over my two month hiatus. Only God knows how that happened. Instead, what little muscle I had left lost all fortitude and reverted back to a more primitive state commonly called fat. Turning this fat back to muscle is the charge I have before me. As with all endeavors involving the conversion of primeval soup to a more evolved form, a higher state if you will, it's going to take hard work. Just another example of the true injustices of life. It's so damn easy to make fat and so hard to build muscle. In fact, by sitting my ass in front of the computer, I'm probably doing it right now. Fat is bad and muscle is good. So why is the thing that's good for me so hard to do? I'm not going to expound considering the subject would require a week long psych lecture retreat in the hills of West Virginia. Plus, I'm not really qualified to give it and I don't have the log cabins lined up. I'm sure everyone understands what I'm talking about anyway. So, until a certain biomedical engineer invents a way to burn fat easily while building muscle that actually works, it looks likes it's exercise in the great outdoors for me.

Sorry, I Missed That

I've come to realize I suck at acting interested when someone is talking about something I don't care about. I hope I'm unwittingly putting up the 'I'm paying attention front' enough that it's not blatantly obvious, but who knows. It's tough to tell how people perceive you because it's their view. I feel, as of late, I don't pull off the "oh, that's great", "really nice", "that's too bad" thing well. I know it's an assholish thing to do. I should act like I care for the simple reason that it's what I would want someone to do for me.

Obviously, I'm not doing it on purpose. I'm talking about friends and colleagues here. Not the annoying stranger, person you can't stand or mortal enemy. These are people that deserve my attention. Yet somehow I constantly find myself tuning them out, choosing not to engage in the conversation because I'm not interested in what they're saying. I don't want to be patronizing, but if someone is taking the effort and thought to tell me something, I should at least show them the respect of actively listening.

I don't stop what I'm doing to give someone my full attention. I will disengage from a conversation randomly if I become disinterested. I'll start whole new activities and conversation while you're still talking. I short, when it conversational wizardary, I'm a dick. It's amazing that people like me. Although, I must say that short list became one name shorter because of last night's Blue Steel fiasco.

I shouldn't have this problem. I'm not busy. I don't do anything of great importance. Hell, I should be thankful that someone is taking the time to talk to me after that messy incident with the vat of acid and my face. Not to mention, I'm a good bullshitter. Unfortunately, I can only bullshit well when I'm messing with somebody. An ass-kissing bullshitter I am not. It would probably help me out professionally if I was though.

I'm not going to say I'll try to be a better listener. I fear change, even if it's for the good. But let me say thanks to all those people who put up with my unintentional rudeness. I'll probably put you in the same position again, as you're are talking and I'm staring off into space, but you have my permission to call me on it with a swiftly kick to the baby maker.

Non-verbal Communication

Two of my favorite sans speech conversations from yesterday.

Via text message:

(In reference to the Maryland vs. Miami ACC tournament game)

S: Uh oh...Canes are on fire
Me: No wonder they are hard to guard. Somebody get a blanket.

I understand. I'm have a retarded sense of humor. I laugh at things that aren't funny and make up the dumbest jokes and stories this side of Sean Connery. I don't care. If you're going to read my blog you'll have to learn to live with it. I blame God mostly.


Via ICQ:

(a little game of word association)

Me: im going to type a word and then you tell me how you feel about it. ready?
A: Shoot
Me: fucksicle
A: W. (name deleted to protect the innocent)
Me: it's not a word association game, though i can't argue with your logic. i just want to know how you feel about the word.
A: Probably ought to wear white gloves when you eat it
Me: true
A: I like word association better
Me: fine
A: Fire'em out
Me: peanut
A: BRAIN
Me: penguin
A: BEAK
Me: swords
A: SEAN CONNERY ON SNL
Me: beaver
A: VAGINA
Me: muffin
A: TOP
Me: displeasure
A: WORK
Me: feelers
A: FINGERS (<--- This one took him quite a while and I was really hoping for something better. "Feelers" was a good word)
Me: teeth
A: BITING
Me: austin, texas
A: FORD TRUCKS
Me: ale
A: PALE
Me: J. (name deleted to protect the innocent, but I really didn't want to this time)
A: TOOL BAG, HA HA

Before you ask. Yes, we were bored.


Favorite actual conversation of the day:

IT Guy: I'll settle for nothing less than five terabites.
J: Why don't you just go for a yodabite?
Calitri: I heard those can give you a disease.
J: No, I don't think so.
Calitri: Yeah, yeah. I hear it's like rabies but instead of going crazy you eat yourself starting with your hands.


Finally, I wrote a poem for a friend today because I said I would. I figured I might as well share it because it makes me look like a total buffoon.

Eric's Flower
by Calitri

Limp and frail
your pedals turn
Eric knows
he'll never learn

Your life is lost
the flesh is dead
Eric rubs
his funny head

A little love
and watered care
Eric was
caught unaware

A friend you were
but now retired
Eric left too
near the fire

Burn you did
Engulfed in flame
Eric was the
one to blame

Now you're ash
and nothing more
So Eric threw
you out the door

That should keep everyone busy for about two seconds. Now, get off the internet. It's Friday and you should be drunk by now.

One Small Slip for Man

In keeping with the passing down of wisdom theme I touched on last post, there's one overly important piece of advice I need to pass on. I don't want you getting caught with your pants down when your friend falls down the stairs after a ruckus night of frivolity. And trust me, it will happen. If not today, then tomorrow or the next day and just like the second coming of Christ, you're not going to see it coming but you will need to know how to react when it does. So without further ado, I give you Calitri's simple seven steps on what to do when your friend falls down a flight of stairs.

1) Don't panic as you watch the event unfold. If you happen to be nearby and have the reaction time and reflexes of cracked out feline, attempt to stop your friends fall. The stipulations being that the friend must be an attractive, correctly proportioned girl. Guys and fat chicks are on their own. You don't want to end up being the one with the injuries do you? Besides, I'm assuming here that you're six tequila shots deep and at least two sheets to the wind. You'll be lucky to see the tumble. An absolute saint if you process and understand the information your blurry eyes are relaying.

2) The deed is done and there was nothing you could do to stop it short of freezing time. You've only ever done that once - fleeing from the bedroom window, leaving the six guys, the horse and the hooker to deal with the cops - I doubt you could pull it off again. Therefore, the first post trauma thing you should do is laugh. Keep it brief and jolly and certainly don't linger on it. The victim is still groggy at this point and won't recognize or remember that you laughed at them. They'll still like you after all this is over. Also, laughing immediately prevents you from looking like an ass when someone else deduces that the fallen one has a serious injury. If someone yells, "Oh my God, Jimmy's arm is folded up like a pretzel and spewing blood in every direction. Dial 911!", and you're still laughing you ass off and rolling on the floor, the whole group is going to know you're a dick. Brevity here is way to go. Laugh on the inside if you must go longer.

3) Before making your approach, carefully document what you saw and store the memories in an un-alcohol-molested section of your brain. You're going to want to tell the story to many, many people later so you need to get this safely packed away now. Additionally, it's quite possible that you only witnessed a part of what happened and will need to collaborate with others to piece together exactly what went down (other than your friend).

4) If no one else has done it, check to see if they're ok. I know this steps sucks but it's the right thing to do and the friend will appreciate it. If the fallen person is your enemy, especially a secret rival enemy, you should be able to sneak in a good kick to the ribs or elbow to the back of the head here. When executed correctly, the offense is undetectable to the naked eye. Being a ninja is a huge plus.

5) Barring any major injuries, remove the bowl of salsa from their heads as an act of compassion. If the bowl of salsa ended up on the floor, pick it up and place it on their heads as punishment for messing up the floor.

6) Help their poor dazed and confused selves up off the floor and back to an upright and locked position. They'll still be a little woozy at this point so provide some support. At least enough to keep them from falling over and hitting their head on a wall or breaking their leg clean off at teh knee on the corner of a coffee table. Refrain from all use of tazers and stun guns at this time.

7) Now that your friend has been righted, make him or her clean up whatever shit they've destroyed, taking note of lost valuables and property that was involved in the altercation. Helping them clean up is out of the question because you have more important things to do - like sitting back with the rest of your friends and laughing at the drunk guy crawling around on the floor with a bottle of carpet cleaner, a rag and a pair of pliers.

And there you have it. That's all for today children. I'll have to wait for R to do something else stupid to write about the proper reaction to it. Don't worry, it won't take too long.

It's Academic

Being the day after my birthday, I found myself reflecting on my life as people tend to do when they turn a year older. Somehow my mind wandered back to my freshmen and sophomore years of High School at St. Joe's. Those two years were what I consider to be the worst years of my life. Middle school was bad but nothing in comparison to my time spent at the all guys catholic private school. Let me pause here because I don't want to mislead you. Academically, St. Joe is a great school. I have friends, all of which were a year ahead of me, that I'm sure would describe their experience as a success and enjoyable one. I can see how that outcome is possible. The staff was amazing. The teachers genuinely cared about the students educations. The principle was a man that you could go to with your toughest questions and he would answer honestly and compassionately. The kitchen workers prepared the best homemade strombolis I've ever had. Unfortunately, I hated my friends. Maybe they turned out to be nice guys later in life. And I hope they did. But at that place and time, they were some of the biggest dicks I've ever known. I can't say I never participated in some of there assholeness, because I did. But I never felt right about it and I'm not sure I can say that for some of them.

Some might ask why I didn't just make other friends? It's a valid question. It's also one that I have an answer to, so I don't mind explaining. The biggest factor was that I played soccer and so did all my friends. I saw them every day after school, practiced with them, spent a lot of time with them. Of course, there were fractions on the team - sects and clicks - but the better players formed a group and they became the popular kids. In a place were social standing was the key to life, I made sure I was in that group. Also, I did have other friends in and outside of the soccer team. I had a couple of guys from the neighborhood where I lived, who I've known forever. They are life long friends and I'm still close with one of them. Then there were my two best friends from my class that transfered out after their freshman year. As you can imagine, it made things infinitely worse my sophomore year.

Eventually, I couldn't take it any more. I transfered out after my sophomore year, too tired of the shit storm that was my life to stick it out for another two years. I went to public school for the first time in my life, reconnected with a bunch a bunch of guys from my old Middle School club soccer team and had a great last two years. Things certainly weren't perfect. They rarely are at any time. But I was happy again and didn't dread the thought of getting up in the morning to go to school. Who knows, public school might have saved my life. How many people can say that?

Anyway, thinking about the bad times in life, I tend to always wish I had said what I really wanted to or at least should have. Not that I didn't speak my mind in High School, but as a 26 year old, I hope I've gained some wisdom over the years to help better express my thoughts. The High School intellect lacks clarity to properly asses and diagnose most situations. Everything is alphabet soup and you're lucky to form words correctly, much less string them into coherent sentences. The expression of a complete thought is nearly impossible - a stew of hormones, confusion, awkwardness, elation and self-doubt standing in the way. So, as a clear thinking, semi-adult, partially intelligent, mid-twenties guy, this is what I wish I would I have said at any random lunch break during those difficult two years:

"For fuck's sake guys. Do we really have to make fun of each other all the time? Honestly, I know I have a very square jaw, but what the hell am I going to do about that? Justin, you have big ears. John, you're just all around stupid looking. Eric, you're cool. Luke, you are the epitome of a red-headed step child. There's something different, weird, messed up, funny and sad about all of us. Supermodels don't go to St. Joe, at least I never knew one that did. Why do you feel the need to lower everyone else's self esteem around you? It must be to try to make yourself look better, but the only thing it's doing is making you look like an asshole. In fact, it's proving that you are an asshole. Take a look around. Go ahead. Who in the hell are you trying to impress in this room by putting everyone around you down? You're sitting in a cafeteria with 500 other guys. Do you think that if you look cool enough by degrading your friends that Evan will want to date you? It's a fucking all guys school for Christ sake. There's no one here for you to impress."

"Come on, there has to be something else to talk about over the lunch table - girls, beer, drugs, getting into trouble, getting out of trouble, sports, classes. The possibilities are endless. It's High School, the drama never ends and there are always subjects on the table to be discussed. We don't need to belittle each other to survive. If we just acted like friends that would be enough. I'm not going to tell you to grow up because I don't want to grow up. But acting like a fucking prick all the time isn't acceptable at any age. Let's put down the fucking swords and just let each other be. I think we'll all be happier that way."