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"Hey man, feel better alright?  I know people suck, life sucks, whatever, but hell, it's what we got, and it ain't all bad.  You know that right?  Well, whatever.  Who am I to say anything?  Just saying we're not all selfish bastards (Or at least some of us try harder than others not to be).  There's a lot of shit out there, but to use a dumb-ass cursing analogy, 'Fuck that shit'  Fuck it.  Of course, we have to fight it too, but if we let that shit get us down, well then it's won, hasn't it?  If we get down and give up, where's it gonna go?  You're a revolutionary, man, you speak the truth.  Shit, I would've been another 18 year old who didn't vote if not for your site.  You got me behind Nader, man.  You got me to look at myself and think about my political standings and realize that I could at least do something.  So there's a lot of crap to feel down about, so what?  Don't get down.  Just say, 'Screw you bastards, I know better, and I'm gonna do everything I can to defy you.'  I don't know if I'm catering to the right issues to encourage you right now or not, but you get what I'm saying, right?  Things tend to make more sense in my head than in words.  Well, I just thought I should say something.  Peace out."
-Juicy Cerebellum Reader 11/29/00 - Current

"You make a difference in my life more than anyone else ever has. When I grad. college end of this year and sell my soul for a good career you won't be forgotten Sandell! End of 99, you'll be living large offa this page with the contributions I'll be sendin'! Don't worry about this one!  You'll be hearin' from this cat!"
-Juicy Cerebellum Reader 3/9/98 - 2/16/99 (after that, I never heard from that "cat" again)

Revolutionaries Never Get Hugs
Written by:  AlexXx Sandell

He harnessed the sun and asked if then things would change.
The people laughed, 
they thought him mad,
he went back to his parent's basement again.

He wrote out his Manifesto,
he signed it in blood,
his declaration to find
his lost love.

He made his Molotov Cocktail,
and flung it from the church,
down to the Wal-Mart,
hoping that no one got hurt.
(Outside of a few CEO's who may have gotten burnt.)

Insurance covered the damage;
they threw him in jail,
"a waste of taxpayer dollars,"
they snickered,
then they let the "waste" out on bail.

"Did you forget anything?"
He was asked as he walked out the door,
he didn't say it,
but he couldn't remember a reason to smile anymore.

Dad yells.

"At least you have friends to face,"
the revolutionary says locking his head in a panicked embrace . . .
the hit doesn't come,
but the words hurt one-thousand times more:
"If we would have known how you were going to turn out,
you would have been an abortion.
For 28 years now, 
you've been a thorn in our side."

Mom asks, trying the word on for size:
"you're more like a user, living off of the most vulnerable person you can,
there's going to be a day that we're dead,
and you won't be able to do it again."

"Why can't you be more like your brothers?"
She asks,
the most painful thing that she could inquire,
"they may share your thoughts,
but they hide behind adequate masks.
and preach to the choir."
"That changes nothing mom," he says, "nothing gets done.
it's like sobering a drunkard up by giving him bread with his rum."
"But they go on," mother says,
 "and they succeed and they do all
that you wanted to do,
one is a journalist,
the other's in school
Every day they call us and tell us they're doing so great,
when we get a call from you, all you can tell us is you 
did yet another update."

The revolutionary frowns through a smile, and tries to explain,
"what they choose to do will never matter in the end.
They're part of a gigantic assembly machine,
they can make 10 times my money,
but they'll never be me!
They won't even be close,
they don't have the nerve to be free."

The revolutionary holds back sobs and locks himself in his room,
too much for one day, he can't take anymore.
Too bad his mom has a key to the door.

"I'm a proud mother . . .,"
says mom,
". . . Proud of my other two children."
"I know you could be ten times what they are,
"I know you could bring a smile to me,":
"but you, you have too much of that damn 'integrity.'"

"Just meet us halfway,
mom says,
"and we'll give you a boost,
dad might not admit it at first,
but if he finds out that you're telling the truth,
he might pay your way and you can go back to school.
Go back to school and submit to their every
demand, let them shape you into a brand new, complacent man.
Isn't it worth it? 
You will have a gigantic family and a bunch of friends,
rather than a handful of losers,
and Internet fans."

"Are they going to be there for you?"
mom spits her words at the revolutionary,
"once you actually need them? Will they be there,
or will they be gone?"

"Answer me!"

"I think that they'll be there,"
he says, half-believing the lie.
"If they don't show up soon,
what's the difference? I'll just
fucking die."

"Watch the language,"
ma says,
"cut the delusions,"
every fan promise you've gotten has been an illusion.

"They don't care about you,
as long as you write more for them.
As long as they can play you,
they'll promise it all over again.
Learn from the past,
whatever you gave to your readers,
they never gave back."

"But, mom,
there are some, some I really believe,"
"Well," she responds,
"get your money from them and tell the others to leave."
"A revolution isn't all about cash."
He says, feeling sort of brave,
"We'll see about that, once we dump you from house to grave."

"You're going to be a homeless 29-year-old corpse,
probably complaining about how the after-life isn't fair.
My first born's a disabled loser,
why do I care?
It's over for you,
good luck with your page,
I honestly hope you find enough users with
enough of your rage.
I honestly hope you find enough users with"
enough of your hate,
that you can finally find an income
hidden inside of your rebellious state.
Until then, until then,
it's too fucking late,
we threw you from the nest hoping you'd fly,
from the fall that you're taking,
looks as if you're soon to die.
You can't stay forever young,
no fan of this page will ever send what they can to 
PO BOX 3-3-1.

You won't get a dime,
you'll be forever ignored.
Be on your way,
work the factory floor.
Sell yourself for $8.00 an hour,
and then tell me who's the whore." 

"Alex you have to be the happiest man alive.  I know I would be.  You fight the real fight and you send all consequences to the wind.  I hope I can be just like you.  I strive for that.  Let's bring down society and start something new where we can all enjoy life together and none of us feel screwed over or hurt! Thanks Alex, for being a revolutionary.  One of the only ones online.  I admire you and hope to be with you until the end!"
-Juicy Cerebellum Reader 11/30/00 - current

Alex Sandell
PO Box 331
Alexandria, MN 56308

 email my depressed ass

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2000 Alex Sandell. I'm not copyrighting the letters, cuz I didn't write them.  This update, as a whole, is copyrighted, though.  If you copy this, without my permission, your bitch-ass life will suck as much as mine.