For most of my life, I thought I was crazy.
Nuts. Insane. Psychotic. Violent. Sick.
“Oh, come on, Eddie. You’re bullshitting. This is a work. We get it. It’s part of the character.”
My guy, you really don’t understand. I’ve been out of my mind since before I can remember. When I was in the 10th grade, I got into a beef with this kid over some stupid neighborhood bullshit. I literally couldn’t even tell you what it was about. The next day, I’m sitting in class and I see the dude walking in the hallway. I’m full of testosterone, piss and vinegar, so I pop right up out of my chair like, “What’s up?”
Now, this is Yonkers, so we’re not meeting outside in the parking lot after lunch or whatever. No, bro. It’s on. Dude drops his books and charges into the room and straight up bull rushes me. Right in the middle of class — papers flying everywhere, teachers screaming, kids jumping up on the desks. Pandemonium. And we were in religion class, as a matter of fact. Right hand to God, I snapped. I blacked out. I’m throwing haymakers. I’m smacking the dude with books, folders, everything. They’re trying to teach us the New Testament and I’m trying to German suplex a motherf*cker into the chalkboard. It was out of control.
The only thing that saved me from jail was the fact that I was so young. I was just an angry, angry, angry kid. I wanted to fight the world.