Self-Esteem Read Online Free PDF

received in endorsing this new program.” Turning the ersatz page on his desk, the anchor added, “He is scheduled to appear on the Jan Live show this week.”
    Crawford turned off the TV.
    Bullshit, he thought. More bullshit. Bullshit on top of bullshit.
    This Thomas Watkins, PhD or not, was right, of course. And Crawford’s critics had been growing lately, something that was unthinkable 10 years before.
    Maybe I do need more fiber, Crawford thought.
    The Coldwater Canyon pass was filled with the run of the mill Bimmers and Benzes of morning traffic — mostly people heading to the Valley to earn money to subsidize status symbols: the cars, the house, the spouse, the lover, the Scottish terrier, the rest of it. Many were in showbiz, either “legit” or pornographic, but Cal looked down on them all with the same contempt. His pot high was still hanging solid as he cranked his 8-speaker Alpine stereo system that could accommodate the brilliance of Rotten Tamales’ Caved in Head , a motherfucker machinegun rock anthem that screams for the world to change and change right fucking now!
The morgue of your morals a shitter, a pisser
Daddy came in the babysitter
And you’ve damned me to hell, hypocrite shell!
I’m fucking ringing your death bell!

    “Fuck, yeah,” Cal said, anticipating the “Fuck, yeah” that Rotten cries during the interval. Tamales got a way with fucking words.
    The music got softer as Rotten whispered his wicked verse:
You think I’m slain
You think I won’t fight the battle
But you better fucking watch out, when
(what a scream!)
my caved in head starts to rattle!

    The drummer shoots out a crushing beat as Maestro Tamales’ howl becomes the ear-splitting shriek of a slaughtered pig.
And you better watch out, fuckerrrrr!

    “Yeah, fucker,” Cal yelled. God, he loved that line. He wondered who this “fucker” was and why he needed to “watch out.” Probably one of these assholes on the pass.
    Cal didn’t go to Beverly Hills High School, which was the proper one for his residential district. He went to Valdosta Senior High, a crappy public school just on the other side of the Hills in the Valley. It was a decision that Cal was allowed to make himself — or his dad made it seem that way. By the time the Crawfords moved to Beverly Hills, Cal was nearly out of middle school, and his dad wanted him to continue going to a “normal” high school, as he put it, not a “country club high school” filled with spoiled brats.
    Crawford had a fit during his first inspection of Beverly Hills High. He thought it was just too upscale, like their house. “Do we want to alienate our child even further?” he asked Dorothy. “He’s already being raised in a wealthy household. Do we want to make sure he can’t get along with people outside his socio-economic group?”
    At first Dorothy was against the decision, but she finally gave in, admitting, “Yes, I guess Beverly Hills High is probably a little snooty-tooty.”
    Cal got some angst-ridden observations from his dad about fitting in at such a place and so on. “They’ll look down on you, Cal. They all come from new money, but you come from really new money.”
    Cal agreed: it would be Valdosta Senior High.
    Crawford wasn’t that concerned about Cal thinking he was superior to the rest of the world. Truth was, Crawford just didn’t want Cal buying eight-dollar cappuccinos and shopping for clothes on Rodeo Drive. Even the sight of black Goth clothes and Rotten Tamales posters was preferable to that.
    Coldwater Canyon Drive was a hissing gauntlet of wealth where Cal felt no more privileged than any other upper-class consumer teen. But after passing Ventura Boulevard then Moorpark then Riverside, the gulf between the haves and have-nots diminished quickly, making Cal feel more snooty-tooty than he would have around his would-be classmates in Beverly Hills.
    He barreled toward Valdosta through a residential neighborhood at twice the