Don’t tell me what to do.
Don’t run in the hallways, don’t skip breakfast, don’t drag your feet, don’t forget to floss, don’t call your mother a bitch.
And don’t draw all over your goddamn Converses in ballpoint pen. Don’t smoke pot out of tin foil. Please don’t take advice from grown men who need throat lozenges after screeching their ill-conceived wisdom at you from a plywood stage in Metairie.
Don’t take advice from me either. I’m a shitty adult. I’ve crossed paths with a guy named Puppy on more than one occasion in the past month. He has face tattoos. These are functionally equivalent to a Kill Yourself t-shirt, but your mother can’t wash your face tattoos in laundry detergent that smells like a bitchy cocktail and fold them lovingly on the foot of your bed wondering if she’s failed as a parent.