I’m not a fan of people who claim to have no regrets. The idea that an individual can go through life without regretting anything doesn’t seem realistic. A person with no regrets is essentially a person who claims to have never been wrong…or maybe they have been wrong but don’t feel any regret towards their actions.
Here are a few things I regret:
Not Punching a Drunk Old Man
A couple friends and I were at this bar called Sam Maguire’s in Orland Park, IL. I wasn’t drinking much. We were outside in the beer garden when this drunk older guy in his 60s walked up and told us how his dead mother was one of the stars in the night sky.
I did what I always do in situations like these which is shut my mouth and keep my distance. After talking on and on about his dead mom and whatever else, the man stumbled away. Shortly afterwards, my friends and I left the beer garden and made our way inside where there were people singing karaoke. The drunk guy reappeared and suggested one of us should sing a song. All of us declined.
“Oh come on,” he slurred. “Sing a song.”
My one friend said he was a bad singer and then told the guy that I was a good singer. Which I am not, but at the time I was screaming in a metal cover band.
The drunk old man focused on me.
“Can you sing?”
“No,” I said.
He looked back at my friend. “Can he sing?”
“Oh yeah,” replied my friend. “He’s great.”
He turned to me. “Get up there and sing.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m not that good.”
What proceeded was a verbal assault about how I needed to get my ass onstage and sing. When I declined, the drunk man went on and on about how I was a fucking pussy. I faked laughed and smiled while his spit sprayed in my face. He eventually lost interest, or perhaps needed another beer, and left.
My Second Cross Tattoo
While on a road trip with some friends, I got a tattoo in San Diego, CA. The tattoo was an image from the back of a Down (metal band) t-shirt which depicted a snake wrapped around an iron cross. In the middle of the cross I had the tattoo artist ink the letters CFH which stood for Cowboys From Hell which is the title of an album by the band Pantera.
So I get this image tattooed on the side of my left calf. I think it looks cool. I feel like I am redefining myself and becoming the person I want to become. Cut to my friend’s basement where while we are drinking he informs me that my tattoo is racist.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “It’s a band tattoo.”
He explains that the iron cross is part of German history. Nazi shit.
I should mention two things that were going on during this time:
One: I was recovering from being dumped by my girlfriend of 5 years.
Two: My conditional offer of employment with the Lake County Sheriff’s Police was denied due to me failing the color vision portion of the medical exam.
I felt like shit. A defective human being. I thought I had myself figured out but learned that I didn’t know anything about anything, and after getting the iron cross tattoo, I felt like the most unaware person alive.
I soon became obsessed with getting a normal cross tattoo on my other leg as I felt sort of evil for having the iron cross. I began reading the Bible as it was the only time in my life (despite being raised Catholic) where I felt a need to learn about God and know if he (or she) existed because with everything going on I felt like I needed something or someone to turn to that would love me and make me feel ok.
While attending Joliet Junior College (JJC), I sat in class and drew crosses obsessively in notebooks. The actual act of drawing them calmed me down. I also researched the iron cross and learned that it originated back in 1219 and was awarded to honorable soldiers before WWII, but even with that knowledge I still despised the fact that it had something to do with Germany during one of the most horrific times in history and for some reason needed a normal cross tattoo to make things right.
So after completing my final semester at JJC, I drove to Western Illinois University (WIU) to celebrate and get my normal cross tattoo.
SIDE NOTE: I went to WIU for my first three years and finished my final semester at JJC to be with the girl who broke up with me and moved to another country.
The tattoo shop in Macomb, IL (city of WIU) was called Tattoo Blue. I stopped by during the afternoon and showed one of the artists one of my cross pictures. It took him about an hour to draw something up and when he showed me his sketch, I wasn’t too thrilled about it, but he spent an hour drawing up the design and there was no way I could tell him I didn’t like it, so I had it done.
When I got back to the apartment I was staying at and removed the bandages, I looked down and immediately thought that the bottom portion of the cross looked like a big veiny penis.
Already with an extremely low self-esteem this new penis cross tattoo brought me down even lower to a point that’s hard to explain. I basically felt numb and lost all desire to do anything. My life was over in my mind. Every decision I made was no longer rational. And I ruined shorts. I always said that I was made to wear shorts, but not anymore. I was now a pants man.
As soon as the tattoo healed I began thinking about how to get rid of it. I researched laser tattoo removal. Home tattoo removal. Often times I would draw on it with black marker. Over and over. I wanted it gone. The only good that came from having this penis cross was that it made me completely forget about my first tattoo. Iron cross. Who gives a fuck?
Three years later and after an extreme psychological experience that further reduced my self-esteem and sent me into a forever-long depression, I had enough and went to Tattoo City in Lockport, IL and had six black blocks added to cover up the lower penis part.
Yes. It’s true.
My two friends purchased the doll for my 23rd birthday. I previously said that I would have sex with a blowup doll as a joke, but little did I know that when presented with the opportunity, I would be all about it.
As you can probably tell, this was an extremely low period of my life. I had no girlfriend, lost that police job, got a racist tattoo, got a penis tattoo, was denied acceptance into graduate school at the University of Southern California, and was working at RadioShack making $8.25/hr. I also had a Hot or Not rating of 2.8 out of 10. Although I did have a beard and long hair and the expression of someone who was clinically depressed.
The level of darkness that this blowup doll situation created was beyond anything I have ever been involved in. My psyche was severely damaged and when it came to bedroom intimacy, I felt that a blowup doll was the best and only option for me.
I will now list a series of incidents related to this whole situation that will make it easier for one’s mind to digest:
– My roommate hearing the “hhhh” “hhhh” as I inflated the doll.
– Blowjobs. Vaginal. And anal.
– Kissing. ONLY like once…or twice.
– Deflating her, folding her up and putting her in my closet.
I knew the madness had to end when I saw myself having sex with the doll in my closet mirror; however, getting rid of it felt wasteful. So what I decided to do was try popping it during a session of rough sex.
Apparently I am incapable of having that rough of sex, because I was unable to pop the doll. I placed the remains inside a plastic grocery bag from Ralph’s and threw it down the trash shoot. I remember opening the small metal door and saying goodbye like I was breaking up with an actual real-life girlfriend.
So those are some things that I regret.
Again, I don’t understand how people can say they have no regrets. They may not have done some of the weird stuff I have, but everyone has done something they are embarrassed about or feel guilty about or whatever.
Here’s something quick and fun:
Let’s say I punched the old man, never got the second cross tattoo, and never fucked a blowup doll. I would be a badass shorts wearing ladies man instead of a pussy idiot loner. So the question I have to ask myself is am I happy being a pussy idiot loner OR would I want to be a badass shorts wearing ladies man? I’m not exactly sure, but I definitely have more in common with the outcasts and scarred people who have delved into darkness than the so-called honest people who claim to live perfect lives and have never done anything remotely strange or felt unwanted or weak or insecure. So in that respect I don’t regret my actions…but then again, I did fuck a blowup doll.
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