High school, high school, college too.
Go to church on Sunday learn the Golden Rule

Blaze Foley

High school wasn't fun for anyone I knew.
Even the most popular kids--perhaps mostly
the popular--were psychotic. Imagine growing up
to be a business major. Going to college to learn
how to get rich, to cheat the customer, exploit the help,
and screw the government out of taxes. To fuck good-looking chicks.
To fuck over the forthright and the independent. In the case of women,
to use their sex to get ahead. To get a leg up on the competition.
I was a starry-eyed idealist. A reader. A secret fatalist.
I knew, even then, what was in store for me.
Why fight it. Don't try, Bukowski said.
Charles Willeford wrote
The Shark-Infested Custard.
The first guy to cop out
gets the best deal.
How cynical.
He advised a nephew
to carry a Kafka book
around with him.
He didn't have to
read it. Just carry it.
No one would challenge him.
Who would know?
Advice, 5¢.
Snap out of it.
They are selling you
wolftickets.