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I know you. You're a young guy with clear skin and perfect teeth and the kind of job you're proud to write the alumni association about. You're too young to have fought in any wars and if your parents weren't divorced, then your father was probably never at home. Maybe you really are thinking about some pain-free free-range potluck you went to last weekend or the Earth's depleted O-Zone or the desperate need to stop cruel product testing on animals, but probably not.

Oh, Tyler, rescue me. Deliver me. Deliver me from Swedish furniture. Deliver me from clever art. Deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth. May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect. I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

You were looking for a way to change your life. You could not do this on your own. All the ways you wish you could be, that's me. I look like you want to look. I fuck like you want to fuck. I am smart. I am capable. And most of all, I am free in all the ways that you are not.

You aren't watching a bunch of guys you don't know beating on each other halfway around the world via satellite with a two minute delay, commercials pitching beer every three minutes and a pause now and then for station identification. After this, watching football on television was like watching pornography when you could be having great sex.

If you could be either God's worst enemy or nothing, which would you choose? We're the middle children of history, we have no special purpose or place, and unless we get God's attention, we have no hope of damnation or redemption. Which is worse, hell or nothing? Burn the museums, wipe your ass with the Mona Lisa, this way, at least God will know your name.