You Can Never Go Home Again... Because Your Home is Full of Crime

It may be hard for some of you to believe, but I was not always the media mogul I am today. No, no. Years ago, back before I lived in this undersea mansion off the coast of Malibu, California, I was just an awkward, anorexic-looking teenager who thought not owning a pair of jeans or tennis shoes somehow made me better than the common folk. What sort of upstanding citizen wears denim trousers anyhow? What, are we all a bunch of farmers and lumberjacks?

It’s been almost ten years since I graduated high school, which means its also been almost ten years since I last lived in a charming little city called Flint, Michigan. See, being from Flint allows me the privilege of talking crap about it. If you are not from Flint, however, and you choose to state your opinion on what it’s really like to grow up there, I would advise you to purchase some sort of face protecting shield, as my shoe will likely be flying across the room in your face’s direction at any moment.

Up and coming author Connor Coyne has lived in Flint, Michigan. He is also my friend. These are two very good reasons for me not to throw a shoe at his face. Connor has written a novel, set in Flint, and entitled “Hungry Rats.” It’s about a teenage girl named Meredith, trying to find a shred of sanity in some of the most difficult living situations. Also there is a serial killer called the Rat Man, named so for the dead rats he leaves around his victims bodies. Gross? Yes. Intriguing? Definitely. If you’d like to hear a pretentious sounding review I wrote for Hungry Rats, look it up on amazon.com. Feel free to also buy Connor’s book while you’re there. No pressure or anything, but he does have an adorable child and it’s not like we’re wizards who can just rob banks using our mind powers.

Connor’s book was so interesting to read, not only because he whipped up such a darn fine story, but also because it felt like going home in a way. A dilapidated, grimy, crime-filled home.

This is usually the part of the conversation where I turn to someone and say, “Seriously though. Flint’s not that bad. There are so many things that could be worse about Flint. Like a typhus outbreak or a zombie apocalypse. Same as any big city, really.”

Now, I was never a bad kid. I didn’t have the proper wardrobe for it. So while the other more popular teens were out snorting cocaine or having under-aged sexual relations, I was hanging out with Connor at Atlas Coney Island, drinking coffee. Back then, before my liver and kidneys had to be replaced with robots, I drank my coffee black and by the gallon. Connor and I would also go for walks. Sometimes it would literally be in the middle of the night, when our friends were partying it up. We’d just walk and talk about our writing, about muppets, about any random thing. It was nice to have a friend whose thoughts were as scattered and imaginative as mine were. In the middle of reading “Hungry Rats,” the main character goes for such a midnight walk. My first instinct was to think, “Oh, God! She’s gonna get murdered! What is she, crazy?” And then I’d remember. Oops!

Most of the time, the memories I have of growing up in Flint are not the rosiest in hue. Ironic as this may be, it took my friend’s novel about serial killers in my hometown to remind me of the good times. I felt superior every time I recognized a street or building, and as you know, superior is my favorite thing to feel. Mostly, I guess I’m just proud of my friend, both for his accomplishment and for including Flint into something really positive and amazing. See? Good things can come out of Flint! It’s not that bad. Really.

So shut your flipping pie hole.