Free The Seven Deadly Sins by Corey Taylor

Band-Aid on it. Luckily the commotion had raised the curiosity of the other partygoers, and I was hastily pushed out the door and into a waiting backseat to be whisked
away to the nearest hospital. Because I was drunk, I could barely feel the pain even with my elbow bone sticking out. And unfortunately, because I was drunk, I passed out in the back seat of the car. I must have been on the verge of lighting a cigarette because when I came to, I had a broken Marlboro Red in my mouth.
    I regained consciousness in the emergency room—face down, the broken smoke dangling from dry lips, and the sounds of Kate and Penny arguing over the top of my still body over who would get to keep me. However, the tables had turned: Now they were trying to foist me off on the other. “He is your mess—you can have him!” “I do not want anything to do with him, you can have him!” So as I lay there for another hour waiting for a doctor to come in, then another hour while the doctor sewed up my arm, the vocal equivalent of Federer and Nadal volleyed over my back the entire time I was in the hospital and continued the whole ride home, even as I searched all the twenty-four-hour grocery stores for a sling to put my arm in. I had twenty-one stitches in all. Because I could not use my arm, I lost my job. Because I lost my job, I ended up leaving Denver. Because I left Denver, I ended up putting Stone Sour back together, which led to my audition with Slipknot and other fine things. So fans around the world take note: If not for my lust and truthfulness, I would not have come to be the singer in Slipknot nor would I have been able to put Stone Sour back together, hence there would be no “Snuff” or “Through Glass.”
    And it was all because of my lust and a circular wound on my elbow. J. J. Abrams could have never come up with a storyline like this. The flames of lust do incredible things. They burn to the bone and heal into different skin configurations. They drive us out of our comfort zones and into the arms of destiny. They
desolate our landscapes and show us the complexities of relationships. They also convince us to make out with our guitar player on New Year’s Eve when we are so trashed we did not know who was in front of us. I tell you one thing: He has a giant tongue. It made me puke. True story.
    So I guess most of my adult life has been a road map on the in and out highway. If I am guilty of a deadly sin—and you know me, I am not saying I am or am not—my sin would be lust. But does it stand to reason that if lust were a true sin then it should have never been made to feel so damn good? Why is sex our fleshlike version of chocolate? Why do we get caught in the nets when they feel like heaven and taste even better? In other words, what the fuck, man?
    I still maintain that it comes down to how comfortable people are with their own sexuality. The status quo has gone to great lengths to make sure the taboo is in the tablet. I mean, up until the 1960s homosexuality was regarded as a fucking mental illness. Is that a big enough control issue for you? “Those in favor” chose to make people who were confused enough as it was feel like they were fucking crazy. Can you imagine having to go through shock therapy all because you wanted to sleep with whomever you were attracted to? It is so hard for the gay and lesbian community to trust us; we had to go and try and fuck with their minds, so I do not blame them in the slightest.
    Anyone who feels that homosexuality is not only a sin but also a disease or a mental issue should take a look in the mirror and realize who the real crazy person is. Of all the gay and lesbian people I have ever known, there has only been one crazy candidate, and believe me he was truly crazy. He was convinced he had wings under his skin. Now I am not one to judge, but that shit is fucking crazy to me. But he was crazy because he thought
he was some kind of