Wednesday, February 4, 2009


I often got confused when I was sixteen.

"Yeah, so the guy called me a Pun and went into the Sev. So we waited outside, 'round the corner, like, you know, on 37th, waited for the guy to come out. Comes out with a fuckin' Slurpee and we pound him, fucker. I got him like this, right, like this, holding his head down and kneeing him in the face. C. takes out his little scissors, you know the little Chink scissors, folding?, we use for weed... So C. takes 'em out and shanks him. But just a little bit. Few holes. Not too much. Pink Slurpee all over the sidewalk," D. says, rocking his heels while seated on his BMX. "So now C.'s gotta do YDC."

I don't get it: Why would he sign up for Young Drivers of Canada?

D. spits on the grass. "He'll get out in a few months."

Oh. Youth Detention Centre.

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