Foreword Expectations

Hey you lovely folks! Check out the foreword for what I hope to be an upcoming auto-biography:

Society is always quick to slap a label on you. For me growing up in Somerville, it was: “villen” spelled V-I-L-L-E-N, not villain. Trust me, I did a double take when I chose the title. Growing up there, “villen” was reserved for those who fetishized certain hip-hop videos on MTV as toughness—wiggers, not Wiggas. But I own it now, more woke (AH!) than my adversaries.

Warning: this story dives into spousal abuse, allegations of rape, child marriage, racism, attempted murder, pedophilia allegations, gun violence—basically every twisted corner of the “American dream” gone wrong. I’ll balance it all with humor, because that was my lifeline. If that rubs you the wrong way, know it’s how I survived.

Labels get flipped around—look at how some own slurs in other communities. Here, I reclaim “villen” on my terms. And  I call out my main group of antagonists, those white boys who deserve the hard “-er” ending. In New England, racism and “education” can dance a weird tango—so pulling it off isn’t hard if you know how.

This is semi-autobiographical: names changed to protect what little I have. A struggling artist with a BS degree (Bachelor of Science, not Bull-Shit), writing from my parents’ basement. I’ve always had a knack for attracting the wrong crowd—people smart enough to drag you into chaos or delusional enough to hail Tom MacDonald as Big L reincarnated. Meanwhile, I was listening to Freddie Mercury and David Bowie, not just Eminem and Linkin Park. No wonder trauma‑filled straight dudes didn’t like me.

ADHD has me sidetracking—this foreword already proves it. But here’s the promise: you’ll get my unfiltered take, jumps and all, before we hit page one. Maybe I’m bitter; maybe I’m brutally honest. Either way, this is how my story begins—now, before the start of the start, let’s get into it.

Last Trip

As a young man, I yearned to travel to Amsterdam, To experience euphoria with an experienced Working woman. But that is not this poem.

Now, I want to go just south— Belgium— As my mind starts to buckle From all the bullshit of These last six years. Now, an older man yearns To end his life through euthanasia.

Rewind to six years ago, Fed up with an alcoholic dad Who is now dead. Tears streamed down our faces When we realized that ten years had passed. I made an oath that I'd be back.

This was before COVID— Pre-pandemic— Before lockdown struck.

Governments always give false hope When faced with so much death. At least Dad was acknowledged as essential. He could never see that he always was. At least there finally seemed to be a purpose.

The first time I was laid off, I decided to invest my COVID cash In myself, Not in coins that smash brains to bits, But in myself—my life, my journey.

Mom and I had just stopped talking, Realizing that text through tech is not a healthy way For us to communicate. This also gave her false hope. Since I now had cash and a plan, Our relationship seemed on the mend. I ignored the government and big business threats, Needing to prove myself, So I moved to Los Angeles.

Home— That's how I viewed it when I first arrived, About ten years prior, Wanting to follow in the footsteps Of Carlin and Pryor. Before this,I was scared, Though lost, I do feel I found myself.

My first three years— BIG— Scoring gigs, Living off acting—A godsend. Then things started to return To "normal life."

I couldn’t stop Dad from going back to the booze. I focused on my life, Couldn't stop compulsively texting Mom. My life started getting hectic. The entertainment business was shutting down— No representation, no union membership, shut down. I should have placed that bet on Bitcoin. This is my life now.

With all these accomplishments, Still, I don’t feel accomplished. A writer never published, An actor now detached. I invested in myself, And now my life feels like it has no meaning. One relationship with a parent ended, Another seems to be going down the same path.

My journey is taking me Back to Mom. I feel like a child, And she doesn't understand my boundaries. So now I research assisted suicide, Hoping my life ends with a law on euthanasia.

My journey is not yet done. I continue to jot down poems— Is this just another passage? A cry for help? Both? Probably the last.

Since I’ve given life a final destination, It has become more bearable. I live each day like it's the last. Do I have enough left in the tank?

My journey might just end in Belgium, Though I hope to right the ship. I'm trying, Writing, Hoping to return to the young man Who once just wanted the experience of being loved.