Home > The End of FUN

The End of FUN
Author: Sean McGinty


My continuous word of warning is that you should never be discouraged by failure, and never expect success. Then if you don’t find the treasure, you will not be too disappointed, and if you are successful, you’ll be able to stand it more gracefully.

—Edward Rowe Snow



Dear To Whom It May Concern Or Whatever,

This is Aaron O’Faolain and I’ve got some Issues. The directions say I’m supposed to briefly discuss reasons for Application for Termination of FUN®. But in order to briefly discuss one reason, first I have to explain something else, and before I get to that there’s another thing, and in order to cut through the crap and get it all straight in my head, it’s going to take a little more space than the space provided provides. Which is why I’m doing it here in the YAY!log. I hope you don’t mind.

But if you are checking this out and you do mind, please understand that I’m not here to troll or anything. I just got a little behind on my FUN®—and that’s my second issue. To even be allowed to file an Application for Termination, I have to get my YAY!s back up to +100. Which is crazy, but what can you do? So here I am. And if you feel like throwing me a YAY!, that’s awesome. Please feel free to YAY! me so hard, and I will YAY! you so hard right back, and we can live out our lives together in peace and harmony forever with eagles and rainbows amen.

OK, here’s my rundown:

name: already told you

username: original boy_2

age: 17

region: america

mood: sleep depraved

status: fail

history: (see below)

So as for History, that’s where it gets kind of complicated. A lot has happened, and it’s going to take some explaining. Before I get to the part about the werewolf pills, or the hidden treasure, or the amazing holy wonder, I should probably go back to where it all started, aka my childhood, aka what it was like to grow up in a craphole town in the middle of nowhere, aka Antello, Nevada.

At first it was OK, I guess. Lots of bike riding in the brush. Blue belly lizards. Abandoned trailers. That kind of stuff. The main bad thing that happened was when I was 10 and my mom left town to be with this guy named Hawk. Seriously, that’s what his name was. Hawk. Mom met Hawk on a dating site, and they bonded over their deep affinity for being irresponsible asswipes and therefore moved to Sacramento, California. The rest of us handled it in our own ways. Dad drank box wine, Evie wrote sad poetry, and I tried to kill myself, which first of all I do NOT endorse, and second of all *** spoiler alert *** I did not accomplish.

Pro tip: do not try to kill yourself at age 10—or any age, really—and especially not by knocking back a bottle of liquid sleep aid and then tossing yourself off the roof of a garage in the middle of a snowstorm. Which, by the way: YAY! for Doze+® SleepStrong™ liquid sleep, and a big shout-out to its gag-inducing harvest apple flavor, which may have saved my life that day, seeing as right after I chugged it, I barfed it all back up on the carpet. Instead of cleaning the mess (a fate worse than death), I decided, Why not jump off the garage?

So I climbed the crab apple tree to the roof of the garage and stood there in my jammies with the snow whipping round. And as I gazed down from those lofty heights, I knew—I mean, I just couldn’t deny it—those heights weren’t even remotely lofty enough to kill me. Still, I did in that moment exhibit perseverance and follow-through. I mean, I did jump.

But right after I jumped I had this thought—or more like a series of thoughts: What up, A-dog? Whatcha doin’? You think this is a wise decision? This is not a wise decision at all.

I swear I was out there for a good ten seconds, just floating in midair with my thoughts, cartoon-style. But then gravity kicked in and I began to fall, and as I fell I managed to make a grab for the rain gutter, which is how I sliced open my hand, and also how I got distracted from my very imminent landing. And as I very imminently hit the snowy concrete, I did detect with my ears a most terrible POP! emanating from the general vicinity of my left anklebone area.

Pro tip #2: when your sister finds you on the driveway with blood all over and a foot pointing in the wrong direction, and when she asks what happened, do NOT tell her you tried to kill yourself. If you tell her you tried to kill yourself, she’ll freak and tell your dad, and he’ll send you to some doctors, and those doctors will medicate you to within an inch of a lobotomy, and you’ll lose the next six years of your life in a slightly damp, slightly bitter lavender-flavored brain fog.

Don’t do it.

I’m telling you.

Just say you fell.



So that part sucked, and I’m going to fast-forward to my junior year of high school, aka last year, which is the year I finally made the decision to get off the pills, which I’m not necessarily recommending (check with a medical professional and all that), but for me I think it was a good decision—and then, on the other hand, quitting the pills is probably what got me expelled.

The problem was that once the fog was gone, all the feelings came back. Anger mostly. It was like, What the hell happened to the last six years? Who the hell am I anyway? What the hell am I doing wasting my life in this craphole of a town?

And I ended up having this “discussion,” I guess you could call it, with a certain teacher of mine in a public arena, i.e., classroom. His name was Mr. Danielson, and I asked him in so many words to why not self-administer a paper enema using preferably a nearby rolled-up map of North America (he was my geography teacher). That suggestion resulted in a week’s suspension, but what got me booted for permanent was later that same month, on the eve of my seventeenth birthday, when I burned down the gymnasium.

I didn’t actually burn down the gymnasium—though if you read the way they put it in the police report, you’d think I did. But I didn’t. What happened was me and my best friend, Oso, were out in the fields trying to smoke some fake weed he’d got me as a birthday present. It was supposed to be real weed, but it was fake. Once we figured that out, we were like, In our bored pursuit of cheap fun let us now play with incendiaries. We had two bottle rockets. Mine was a dud, fizzling out like the saddest candle. So Oso—this is the kind of friend he is—he offered me his.

“Make a wish, bro.”

I can’t even remember what I wished for, but here’s what I do remember: the hiss of the rocket, the silence afterwards, and then a little while after that, Oso tapping me on the shoulder.

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