I was out with my friend named Big B tonight and we were talking about Mark Maron and how courageous he was for just putting it out there in his beginning podcasts. How ballsy it was for him to just say exactly what was on his mind. To just say I fucking hurt and heres is why.....blah, blah, blah.
So, I guess this is my first copycat edition of why Jon Pauley hurts. I would say it begins with......And this is a story I have only told a few close friends, or possibly only FL. It begins with a flea market and my mom's manipulation of a scenario I was comfortable with and was used to, but then was twisted upside down.
Often times, on Sundays, my mom and I used to go to flea markets together. Rarely, would she give me more than a dollar or two to spend on total bullshit. A comic book here, garbage pail kids, etc. That day she splurged. To this day, I can't remember what I brought home.
We returned to our childhood house, but stuff was missing. Immediately, I was suspicious. (Or at least in this adult telling I was). Things were not in the house. Things were missing. All of my dad's stuff was gone.
I begged for him to tuck me in that night. My mom, god bless her soul, allowed me to buy all of this useless shit at the flea market to dull the pain. Yet, it didn't matter if I had the entire collection of series 1 of the Garbage Pail Kids. It didn't matter if I had a cool new hot wheel that was made of true die-cast steel. What mattered was my dad saying good night to me.
So, that may be where the hate begins. There are old Catholic school stories to tell of horrible things nuns had done to me. Yet, I think this defines the moment where hate, doubt and skepticism of those you are not supposed to feel those things towards had begun.
