I’m not a writer or anything…

… but thanks to the Dead Rebel Society I still might have fooled some of you into believing that.

The day I first came across this site… I still remember it like it was yesterday... Which is really not saying much, since I’m still trying to break every record there is on getting completely fucking shitfaced on a daily basis, naturally experiencing some substantial memory loss. But if the owners of this site didn’t just make its anniversary date up, because five and twelve are such cool numbers, I couldn’t have missed much more than a couple of days of it being online back then. And even though there weren’t more than a handful (okay, maybe it was a Chernobyl mutated hand with lots of extra fingers) of articles up by then, I figured this would become my new favourite internet hangout right away. I don’t even know why, or how, I figured that anymore. Maybe it was the beautiful big, colorful fonts? Maybe it was the fact I could feel special for being one of the first readers? Maybe it even was the actual content? Ha, no, just kidding!

It was probably just my sixth sense, telling me that with the help from this website, I could finally become a star, I mean… writer, too. Or at least pretend to be one for a while. Because I’m really not. Do I think I suck at writing? Not necessarily, but to me, the word ‘writer’ means someone who writes. Duh. See? I have such a way with words. What I really meant, though, is that a writer is someone who writes for the love of writing. For himself. All the time. About anything that bugs him. Yes, I said ‘him’. I’ve never read anything written by a woman and liked it. Present company excluded, of course. “Blogging” doesn’t count, by the way – much like keeping a diary doesn’t nominate you for the Pulitzer.

Anyway, that’s not what I do. Write, I mean. I’ve never written anything in my life voluntarily, even though some dumbass teachers tried to egg me on in school all the time. Why would I do that in the first place, without some kind of audience or platform? I’m already aware of what I’m thinking, without having it in front of me on a paper sheet or a computer screen. I do feel the need to tell you why you should care about what I think, though.

Around Christmas, last year, the owners of this site asked me to submit some guest shit. That’s when I decided to recapitulate my drug habits while growing up for a first guest article. And somehow, it really made me start to enjoy writing, which luckily coincided with “the powers that be” wanting me to write some more for the main page when the next columnist left/was fired (whoever really knows?). Since then it’s almost been a year of entertainment, controversy and, yes, even education. I have gained a little insight into some very interesting people’s minds. And last but not least; all those annoying deadlines! I could live without them. I really could.

Looking back now, I wouldn’t want to miss any of that. But to be honest, the first subject to write about that came to mind, when I was told the anniversary was coming up, was a farewell article. I seemed to have hit rock bottom, regarding my lack of creativity and ambition. Actually, I just now, writing this, realized how much I have really enjoyed being a part of this. So I decided to continue grabbing the bull by its horns for hopefully at least another year, supplying you all with “everything from serious disquisitions on various philosophical topics, through vicious rants about inane bagatelles, to drunk rambling speeches about shit I couldn’t care less about”, as I put it in my introduction in the beginning (this one obviously falls into the latter category in case you wondered). Where the hell did those introduction articles go, by the way? You fuckers even made me start writing poetry, and admitting to actually owning David Hasselhoff albums. Not bad for a one year old. How could that leave anyone cold?

And just in case you realized this speech is really fucking gay, even by my standards, let me randomly add that abortions should be legitimate until your kid is three years old, and that all hard drugs should be legalized… No, fuck that… Being sober should be against the law, to make up for all those years it was the other way around.

See? I might not be any less dead than you old fucks, but I’m still twice as rebellious.

Did I manage to make it sound like I really had a point to begin with? No? Oh well…

Happy fucking birthday, then.


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