The ridiculous barbaric yawp, summoned from the throat of an emotionally impotent, eternal 12 year old. The impossible anger of the pubescent; resentment and rage that feels like it could crack the crust of the earth itself only to sputter out in beaten mattresses and bruised knuckles and being sent to bed with no supper, laying face down on a lime green shag carpet with middle fingers pointed at the door screaming obscenities into a pillow.

Channeling  poorly copied covers of Byrne and Claremont X-men in a garage in 1984, playing dungeons and dragons, sneaking cigarettes in the woods with Donnie Hoover and wondering what a boob might feel like. Breaking into cars, getting high for the first time, petty acts of vandalism and rock fights by the jump ramp behind the Citgo. The poorly scrawled cock in marker on the bathroom stall, the homemade superhero on the back of an unfinished math worksheet. 

Celebrating the global triumph of the American adolescent, the international export of empty values; the shallow and erroneous belief that evil is a thing
that can be beaten into submission as opposed to the relentless grind of poor choices made by the weak and greedy. The triumph of power over compromise, of might over justice. The leering constipated face of the oppressor that sees itself as the victim, suffering from a mortal and eternal, narcissistically sentimental, wound. Reductive and rageful always seeking the wrong target, incapable of changing trajectory. A 4 color boot standing on a poorly rendered human face, forever.