How can I take myself this
seriously?
What kind of person, of poor taste, deems himself worthy to teach a craft rooted in pure illusion?
What kind of fat bastard tells his children not to take from his supply while he limits theirs?
Who begins a story with bland and sardonic rhetorical questions?
The same who doesn't bother correcting his mistakes after you've drank his blood and fucked his girlfriend. The same who has chosen the foolish, outdated catalogs of dead art and folklore-
with ambitions to become a writer who’s understood his unbearable world.
No one of rational thought or intention would ever consider becoming a writer,
no sane person.
A sane person is someone who realizes to be a dog would serve more purpose than a writer ever could. A dog will instigate and mimic their own kind yet forever obliged to protect his master. His superior. His executor.
Though never in real danger between man and small beast, the dog is warranted shelter and love until the hands of God or his master rule otherwise.
Regardless, the dog will still crave his own shit and be ostracized for it.
If only writers had such value.
Though I am writing this, I'd like to say I'm merely a singer of sorts. The more I read my writing, the less faith I have in my success. My dreams are also the pipe dreams shunned by the men and women of the status quo who trust and report to the hands of the wealthy, their only defiance is to simply bitch about what they'll never see change. As foolish as I am for living my outrageous pursuits, I can honestly say I've never felt bothered after already embracing the understanding of the same mundane realities.
This is still not a recommended profession of choice, but the most enriching decision one could ever make-to sing. Even as glorious as writing may seem, nothing heals like the power of song. An even greater feeling than simply just writing is to sing the words you've written, even if never read at least they can be heard by the ears of the creator. If my goals were set purely to writing and not music I'd so far be in the league of pathetic attempts at prose; which is perhaps a fair statement on this overall-yet another story of a vagabond lost even with intentions. How unheard of.
I have been unshaven and disheveled for the majority of this unholy year. I began writing these pages some months in the making while sleeping on a mattress of the few clothes I'd kept with me travelling. After some time being a stranger to everyone, you begin to adore a false sense of pride in restricting yourself to the hospitality of acquaintances and kindness of strangers. It ends up being the only charm left in the odds of an unmerciful world. The chaotic void between dawn and afternoon when you wake up to an empty town square feeling like the last man on earth-the one with too many options and yet nowhere to go. A city to yourself. I wouldn't understand that strange feeling until the final days of my travels. Unlike the transcendentalists or romantics before me, there was little appreciation for the world around me during my journey. In many ways, it wasn't a journey at all.
The philistines and suburbanites had raised a generation where the only kids trusted felt the need to study psychology. In an age where most abused prescription medication, the only respected and invested youth chose medical school. Or the military. The most hope our world had was that it's own damaged breed could fix each other. They were the most fucked up. I hated my generation. I hated the popular antics of conformity. I hated my town.
So I ran away.
I was left to forever be remembered as a delusional shadow of a pseudo-intellectual poet in my retirement community hometown, one so ungrateful and arrogant to the point he couldn't even settle for the glamorous life of a substitute teacher with a Degree in Communications.
"He left to go become a musician."
"Your son?"
"Yes, the one who was in the mental hospital."
"Do you think he's going to make it?"
"No."
"Is he any good?"
"Not really."
"Which one was he again?"
If the popular opinion of my close and extended family dictated my decisions in life, I would have gladly remained a cocaine addicted telemarketer in South Florida. Making money. Being a team player. Working your way to the top.
I could masturbate in the bathrooms after speaking to beautiful and unusually cold women whose profession it was to manipulate the will of local business owners nationwide, here and there inviting them to see me open for my friend's band at the Tiki Bar where they'd just sleep with my friends while I'd spend the night chain smoking outside before being left to amuse the attention of strung out homeless new fans. These dedicated men and women claimed to love my music and voice to the point they felt I should pay them in return for their praise. The girls would be gone. Most nights I'd purposely forget my wallet just to remind myself I would most likely never be paid for this- even if I'd remember to bring it. Some people have the misconception that playing guitar gets you laid. Maybe if you're doing something that's worked in the past, playing covers songs from a world so dead yet alive on replay for the Jukebox Memorial Service, or if you’re just traditionally good looking.
No matter who I invited to see me play, no one would ever come to just see me. The results of those who did pay attention didn't greet with give much acclaim.
"HEY! Was that you playing that show alone at Harry's?"
"No."
"OK good, because I was gonna say it was really bad. Not many people showed up but they all left when that guy who looked like you went on."
Oh, take such pity on the Promising Palm Beach Lounge Singer. For the most part, I knew I wasn't great. I was driven and intense, but natural talent and knowledge of the guitar was at times obviously lacking. So, like every sad sack, I stuck to the Blues and sang songs about places I'd never seen. However, being a lover of experimentation and the avant garde, my music was becoming more to my abstract preference. This was probably why I didn't fit in the almost-virtually-nothing music scene of my hometown. How I hated Florida.
Now the somewhat deemed "promising" singer did leave his hometown at last, with little money and only an old guitar not even worth stealing. I was sad to leave my family, who had stuck with me despite my troubled history of being sent to rehabs, halfway houses, and mental institutions-but I was well over eighteen and after being in and out of the house it was time to leave. I left for the bus station early in the morning and didn't even say goodbye to my sister. There was such an urgency, being so discomforted in a mundane suburban environment that it almost numbed me of decency. I was in the heat of drug addiction, particularly cocaine. My last weekend in Florida was spent on an acid trip in the slum town of Lake Worth. Coming across the acid was a classic after school special: sitting on a bench stoned when a stranger selling tabs approaches you with a five-dollar-hit deal. I was already searching for my second gram of cocaine, LSD seemed like a great solution for the existential crisis at large. It ended up being a strange night spent basically alone, sleeping under a bridge and only wanting more bumps of cocaine to stop the world from melting and spinning.
This was where I had the revelation to free myself from the palm trees and ignorant corruptions of what I had become: a loser. As I stared into the abyss of night between by concrete walls I began to fear this resort would slowly become my ongoing endeavors. I'd seen the face of God himself before on acid but this time reality was scaring me more than anything hallucinatory could have been perceived. There wasn't a single person to even witness me at my lowest, which may have been a blessing. Still, a friend or warm body through that night while shaken by the drugs and desire would have made some difference.
The memory of that final weekend, all I'd felt and seen, followed me as I departed the city of West Palm Beach.
The moment the Greyhound passed the scorching border of my home state, I recall feeling an invisible weight being released from my shoulders. Sweating and eager, I was happy to be ditching the tar colored sandy beaches for the dead plains of rural (and at that time, freezing) Pennsylvania, where the only folks kind enough to help the poor are the Amish hidden in the God fearing outskirts-too wary to even speak the fools running in an out of superstores with cases of cheap beer.
I still wasn't gonna miss Florida.
"I hope I never see the Ocean again."
I had been talking to a former band mate Virgil, who had problems of his own, and he'd offered with open arms to collaborate and pursue the Rock 'N Roll dream. I knew him from a previous group we'd been in, which was formed when I was seventeen and fresh out of high school. The band we had been in was a losing shot, an annoying and desperately catchy pop group called the Gentlemen (which was ironic because the three of us were all complete assholes). The group did not last long, and Virgil endured financial troubles until finally moving to Pennsylvania while I suffered a nervous breakdown that landed me several weeks in the mental institution.
Now he'd convinced me it'd be more direct and strictly professional. Writing songs every day, recording on a regular basis, and playing the ramshackle Northeast until we'd make it to the Holy City of Nashville, Tennessee-an odd selection for "Rock N Roll" but a recently reformed destination for all forms of music. Perhaps even us.
He had gotten into the spell of combining Country music and Blues like the music before us. Rock 'N Roll was dead and we were in denial despite the petty dreams of stardom that was to fuel a sound even I wasn't sure of. This attempt at making a band (consisting of two people this time rather than three) would be an entirely different process. I was both confused and fascinated with the idea of moving to Nashville. Even though country music had become far worse than the pop majority of today, I was certain there were as many artists frustrated with the inflation as we were. I was thinking far into the future ahead, as usual, already planning my success and how to establish myself in the music industry. Most importantly, I was dead set on resurrecting the dead art of raw sound.
There were multiple basic creative differences between me and Virgil. He didn't like anything that wasn't catchy, he didn't like Bob Dylan, and seemed to hate anything that wasn't musically up to his standards.
I didn't worry much about this as I'd already worked with people of different taste and never played music with anyone who had matching aesthetics; you probably wouldn't ever want that to make anything original anyway.
I didn't tell him when he picked me up from Philadelphia that I had barely any money, I'd promised to pay two weeks rent in advance to Virgil's roommate-then we'd be off to Nashville.
"Yeah, I'm just waiting on the money from my last paycheck to come in. It's going to be wired to me," I'd said.
The drive from the city was into the depths of the countryside to a town smaller than any place I'd been before-Kutztown. We pulled into town at nightfall and suddenly I'd felt like I had been transported seventy years back in time. The oldest and dirtiest buildings I had ever seen (and I'd lived in the ghetto) that appeared untouched by man for centuries. The town was the smallest place I'd ever seen: literally only one strip of land that one could walk through in entirety in the span of forty five minutes (I would come to know this having to walk it for various drug-buying errands in the following weeks). When we first drove through there was not a single person on the streets and the only lights on of the buildings were those of the dive bars located sporadically across the strip.
This was to be a temporary home. For some reason the most beautiful thing about being away from home was how thick the snow was on the endless plains surrounding the area. It had been years since I'd seen snow. Working in the cold weather would be a perfect excuse to force the creative process.
The home Virgil stayed in was a pretty, old-tyme styled three story home that resembled the residences of cannibal bible thumpers. When we stepped inside we instantly rushed to the basement, decorated in classic filthy punk fashion of vintage equipment including a 1980s 16-track recording board. At last I was able to create sounds on something that would secure fidelity and not have to rely on various computers that made my early work sound so shitty in quality you couldn't even make out the lyrics. We had a quick jam session that was untamed and raw, I jumped and howled into the old microphone and almost shattered a light bulb with my huge skull. Our drive, no matter how little faith you had in us, was undeniable. After the jam we decided to celebrate by getting drunk at the home of Virgil's girlfriend. To avoid bothering his roommate and rent keeper, we'd crash there for the night.
"What's it like here?" I asked Virgil.
"It sucks, dude. Not much to do around here. Lots of Amish people."
"We actually see them?"
"Yeah, they ride by on these horse-driven buggies all the time. They don't talk to anyone in town. They think we're evil."
"Maybe we are."
The most vibrant and civilized area, outside of the townie rule, was the University. Virgil would tell me about the school over the phone, how it was "loaded with babes."
Babes from everywhere in the country despite how strangely located Kutztown University was. I assumed he'd gotten himself a fair amount of trouble, already being a student but dropping out years ago, with the female majority.
"It looks like nothing changes here," I said.
"You're right."
We spent the first night catching up, reminiscing stories of the previous band and getting drunk off Yuengling (the beloved native brew of the Pennsylvania Sticks. Virgil introduced me to his girlfriend, who was not pleasant to look at. The house she lived in looked haunted, located only a mile away from an eerie cemetery and probably shared the inhabitants of dead souls like the rest of the town.
In the past Virgil had proven himself to care little about a woman's personality and, as a self-proclaimed "sex addict", would indulge in hookers and women much older than him who were just as desperate for sex. Some guys seem to have it all. Though she was nice it was obvious she had been previously lonely and was completely into the brute, even upon first encounter it was evident that she had a sex problem equivalent to my bandmate. After Virgil and I sang corny Beatles covers on his rusty guitar, she requested he fuck her and thus I was left to explore the confines of the haunted house. It was old and empty, discarded furniture and cigarette butts resting next to landfill sized piles of clothes. I was drunk. Feeling sick and weak of tolerance, I headed to the toilet to puke. This was the first time in months the drinks had made me puke. Perhaps the journey made me sick to my stomach as anxiety riddled the day-long bus ride over. I hadn't eaten much and I knew I'd get used to that.
As I threw up an acid caked mess of vomit, I thought of Nashville. I'd just arrived in a completely new town, but the destination was Tennessee. For years I'd listened to the old songs that praised the country as a promised land and Mecca-soon would come the time to be a part of such a history. For now I was puking in a pube-rimmed toilet, careful not to worsen the condition of the already dirty bathroom, a kaleidoscope of snot crusted tissues and old tampons. Understanding the validity of this bathroom only caused me to puke further. This was how someone just under a year of being legally allowed to drink acts. This was the premature "rock-star" life. The only difference between me and my idols is that someone knew their name. I crawled out of the bathroom like a solider who'd his legs and that was when I first heard the squeaking bed from the room accompanied by the sounds of violent fucking.
I slept on the floor. I still don’t understand why the first episode of my journey concluded with the feeling of my dreams dying. Of all the awful music I was to encounter and even worse-play-I find myself understanding the importance of being young and no one knowing your name.
What kind of person, of poor taste, deems himself worthy to teach a craft rooted in pure illusion?
What kind of fat bastard tells his children not to take from his supply while he limits theirs?
Who begins a story with bland and sardonic rhetorical questions?
The same who doesn't bother correcting his mistakes after you've drank his blood and fucked his girlfriend. The same who has chosen the foolish, outdated catalogs of dead art and folklore-
with ambitions to become a writer who’s understood his unbearable world.
No one of rational thought or intention would ever consider becoming a writer,
no sane person.
A sane person is someone who realizes to be a dog would serve more purpose than a writer ever could. A dog will instigate and mimic their own kind yet forever obliged to protect his master. His superior. His executor.
Though never in real danger between man and small beast, the dog is warranted shelter and love until the hands of God or his master rule otherwise.
Regardless, the dog will still crave his own shit and be ostracized for it.
If only writers had such value.
Though I am writing this, I'd like to say I'm merely a singer of sorts. The more I read my writing, the less faith I have in my success. My dreams are also the pipe dreams shunned by the men and women of the status quo who trust and report to the hands of the wealthy, their only defiance is to simply bitch about what they'll never see change. As foolish as I am for living my outrageous pursuits, I can honestly say I've never felt bothered after already embracing the understanding of the same mundane realities.
This is still not a recommended profession of choice, but the most enriching decision one could ever make-to sing. Even as glorious as writing may seem, nothing heals like the power of song. An even greater feeling than simply just writing is to sing the words you've written, even if never read at least they can be heard by the ears of the creator. If my goals were set purely to writing and not music I'd so far be in the league of pathetic attempts at prose; which is perhaps a fair statement on this overall-yet another story of a vagabond lost even with intentions. How unheard of.
I have been unshaven and disheveled for the majority of this unholy year. I began writing these pages some months in the making while sleeping on a mattress of the few clothes I'd kept with me travelling. After some time being a stranger to everyone, you begin to adore a false sense of pride in restricting yourself to the hospitality of acquaintances and kindness of strangers. It ends up being the only charm left in the odds of an unmerciful world. The chaotic void between dawn and afternoon when you wake up to an empty town square feeling like the last man on earth-the one with too many options and yet nowhere to go. A city to yourself. I wouldn't understand that strange feeling until the final days of my travels. Unlike the transcendentalists or romantics before me, there was little appreciation for the world around me during my journey. In many ways, it wasn't a journey at all.
The philistines and suburbanites had raised a generation where the only kids trusted felt the need to study psychology. In an age where most abused prescription medication, the only respected and invested youth chose medical school. Or the military. The most hope our world had was that it's own damaged breed could fix each other. They were the most fucked up. I hated my generation. I hated the popular antics of conformity. I hated my town.
So I ran away.
I was left to forever be remembered as a delusional shadow of a pseudo-intellectual poet in my retirement community hometown, one so ungrateful and arrogant to the point he couldn't even settle for the glamorous life of a substitute teacher with a Degree in Communications.
"He left to go become a musician."
"Your son?"
"Yes, the one who was in the mental hospital."
"Do you think he's going to make it?"
"No."
"Is he any good?"
"Not really."
"Which one was he again?"
If the popular opinion of my close and extended family dictated my decisions in life, I would have gladly remained a cocaine addicted telemarketer in South Florida. Making money. Being a team player. Working your way to the top.
I could masturbate in the bathrooms after speaking to beautiful and unusually cold women whose profession it was to manipulate the will of local business owners nationwide, here and there inviting them to see me open for my friend's band at the Tiki Bar where they'd just sleep with my friends while I'd spend the night chain smoking outside before being left to amuse the attention of strung out homeless new fans. These dedicated men and women claimed to love my music and voice to the point they felt I should pay them in return for their praise. The girls would be gone. Most nights I'd purposely forget my wallet just to remind myself I would most likely never be paid for this- even if I'd remember to bring it. Some people have the misconception that playing guitar gets you laid. Maybe if you're doing something that's worked in the past, playing covers songs from a world so dead yet alive on replay for the Jukebox Memorial Service, or if you’re just traditionally good looking.
No matter who I invited to see me play, no one would ever come to just see me. The results of those who did pay attention didn't greet with give much acclaim.
"HEY! Was that you playing that show alone at Harry's?"
"No."
"OK good, because I was gonna say it was really bad. Not many people showed up but they all left when that guy who looked like you went on."
Oh, take such pity on the Promising Palm Beach Lounge Singer. For the most part, I knew I wasn't great. I was driven and intense, but natural talent and knowledge of the guitar was at times obviously lacking. So, like every sad sack, I stuck to the Blues and sang songs about places I'd never seen. However, being a lover of experimentation and the avant garde, my music was becoming more to my abstract preference. This was probably why I didn't fit in the almost-virtually-nothing music scene of my hometown. How I hated Florida.
Now the somewhat deemed "promising" singer did leave his hometown at last, with little money and only an old guitar not even worth stealing. I was sad to leave my family, who had stuck with me despite my troubled history of being sent to rehabs, halfway houses, and mental institutions-but I was well over eighteen and after being in and out of the house it was time to leave. I left for the bus station early in the morning and didn't even say goodbye to my sister. There was such an urgency, being so discomforted in a mundane suburban environment that it almost numbed me of decency. I was in the heat of drug addiction, particularly cocaine. My last weekend in Florida was spent on an acid trip in the slum town of Lake Worth. Coming across the acid was a classic after school special: sitting on a bench stoned when a stranger selling tabs approaches you with a five-dollar-hit deal. I was already searching for my second gram of cocaine, LSD seemed like a great solution for the existential crisis at large. It ended up being a strange night spent basically alone, sleeping under a bridge and only wanting more bumps of cocaine to stop the world from melting and spinning.
This was where I had the revelation to free myself from the palm trees and ignorant corruptions of what I had become: a loser. As I stared into the abyss of night between by concrete walls I began to fear this resort would slowly become my ongoing endeavors. I'd seen the face of God himself before on acid but this time reality was scaring me more than anything hallucinatory could have been perceived. There wasn't a single person to even witness me at my lowest, which may have been a blessing. Still, a friend or warm body through that night while shaken by the drugs and desire would have made some difference.
The memory of that final weekend, all I'd felt and seen, followed me as I departed the city of West Palm Beach.
The moment the Greyhound passed the scorching border of my home state, I recall feeling an invisible weight being released from my shoulders. Sweating and eager, I was happy to be ditching the tar colored sandy beaches for the dead plains of rural (and at that time, freezing) Pennsylvania, where the only folks kind enough to help the poor are the Amish hidden in the God fearing outskirts-too wary to even speak the fools running in an out of superstores with cases of cheap beer.
I still wasn't gonna miss Florida.
"I hope I never see the Ocean again."
I had been talking to a former band mate Virgil, who had problems of his own, and he'd offered with open arms to collaborate and pursue the Rock 'N Roll dream. I knew him from a previous group we'd been in, which was formed when I was seventeen and fresh out of high school. The band we had been in was a losing shot, an annoying and desperately catchy pop group called the Gentlemen (which was ironic because the three of us were all complete assholes). The group did not last long, and Virgil endured financial troubles until finally moving to Pennsylvania while I suffered a nervous breakdown that landed me several weeks in the mental institution.
Now he'd convinced me it'd be more direct and strictly professional. Writing songs every day, recording on a regular basis, and playing the ramshackle Northeast until we'd make it to the Holy City of Nashville, Tennessee-an odd selection for "Rock N Roll" but a recently reformed destination for all forms of music. Perhaps even us.
He had gotten into the spell of combining Country music and Blues like the music before us. Rock 'N Roll was dead and we were in denial despite the petty dreams of stardom that was to fuel a sound even I wasn't sure of. This attempt at making a band (consisting of two people this time rather than three) would be an entirely different process. I was both confused and fascinated with the idea of moving to Nashville. Even though country music had become far worse than the pop majority of today, I was certain there were as many artists frustrated with the inflation as we were. I was thinking far into the future ahead, as usual, already planning my success and how to establish myself in the music industry. Most importantly, I was dead set on resurrecting the dead art of raw sound.
There were multiple basic creative differences between me and Virgil. He didn't like anything that wasn't catchy, he didn't like Bob Dylan, and seemed to hate anything that wasn't musically up to his standards.
I didn't worry much about this as I'd already worked with people of different taste and never played music with anyone who had matching aesthetics; you probably wouldn't ever want that to make anything original anyway.
I didn't tell him when he picked me up from Philadelphia that I had barely any money, I'd promised to pay two weeks rent in advance to Virgil's roommate-then we'd be off to Nashville.
"Yeah, I'm just waiting on the money from my last paycheck to come in. It's going to be wired to me," I'd said.
The drive from the city was into the depths of the countryside to a town smaller than any place I'd been before-Kutztown. We pulled into town at nightfall and suddenly I'd felt like I had been transported seventy years back in time. The oldest and dirtiest buildings I had ever seen (and I'd lived in the ghetto) that appeared untouched by man for centuries. The town was the smallest place I'd ever seen: literally only one strip of land that one could walk through in entirety in the span of forty five minutes (I would come to know this having to walk it for various drug-buying errands in the following weeks). When we first drove through there was not a single person on the streets and the only lights on of the buildings were those of the dive bars located sporadically across the strip.
This was to be a temporary home. For some reason the most beautiful thing about being away from home was how thick the snow was on the endless plains surrounding the area. It had been years since I'd seen snow. Working in the cold weather would be a perfect excuse to force the creative process.
The home Virgil stayed in was a pretty, old-tyme styled three story home that resembled the residences of cannibal bible thumpers. When we stepped inside we instantly rushed to the basement, decorated in classic filthy punk fashion of vintage equipment including a 1980s 16-track recording board. At last I was able to create sounds on something that would secure fidelity and not have to rely on various computers that made my early work sound so shitty in quality you couldn't even make out the lyrics. We had a quick jam session that was untamed and raw, I jumped and howled into the old microphone and almost shattered a light bulb with my huge skull. Our drive, no matter how little faith you had in us, was undeniable. After the jam we decided to celebrate by getting drunk at the home of Virgil's girlfriend. To avoid bothering his roommate and rent keeper, we'd crash there for the night.
"What's it like here?" I asked Virgil.
"It sucks, dude. Not much to do around here. Lots of Amish people."
"We actually see them?"
"Yeah, they ride by on these horse-driven buggies all the time. They don't talk to anyone in town. They think we're evil."
"Maybe we are."
The most vibrant and civilized area, outside of the townie rule, was the University. Virgil would tell me about the school over the phone, how it was "loaded with babes."
Babes from everywhere in the country despite how strangely located Kutztown University was. I assumed he'd gotten himself a fair amount of trouble, already being a student but dropping out years ago, with the female majority.
"It looks like nothing changes here," I said.
"You're right."
We spent the first night catching up, reminiscing stories of the previous band and getting drunk off Yuengling (the beloved native brew of the Pennsylvania Sticks. Virgil introduced me to his girlfriend, who was not pleasant to look at. The house she lived in looked haunted, located only a mile away from an eerie cemetery and probably shared the inhabitants of dead souls like the rest of the town.
In the past Virgil had proven himself to care little about a woman's personality and, as a self-proclaimed "sex addict", would indulge in hookers and women much older than him who were just as desperate for sex. Some guys seem to have it all. Though she was nice it was obvious she had been previously lonely and was completely into the brute, even upon first encounter it was evident that she had a sex problem equivalent to my bandmate. After Virgil and I sang corny Beatles covers on his rusty guitar, she requested he fuck her and thus I was left to explore the confines of the haunted house. It was old and empty, discarded furniture and cigarette butts resting next to landfill sized piles of clothes. I was drunk. Feeling sick and weak of tolerance, I headed to the toilet to puke. This was the first time in months the drinks had made me puke. Perhaps the journey made me sick to my stomach as anxiety riddled the day-long bus ride over. I hadn't eaten much and I knew I'd get used to that.
As I threw up an acid caked mess of vomit, I thought of Nashville. I'd just arrived in a completely new town, but the destination was Tennessee. For years I'd listened to the old songs that praised the country as a promised land and Mecca-soon would come the time to be a part of such a history. For now I was puking in a pube-rimmed toilet, careful not to worsen the condition of the already dirty bathroom, a kaleidoscope of snot crusted tissues and old tampons. Understanding the validity of this bathroom only caused me to puke further. This was how someone just under a year of being legally allowed to drink acts. This was the premature "rock-star" life. The only difference between me and my idols is that someone knew their name. I crawled out of the bathroom like a solider who'd his legs and that was when I first heard the squeaking bed from the room accompanied by the sounds of violent fucking.
I slept on the floor. I still don’t understand why the first episode of my journey concluded with the feeling of my dreams dying. Of all the awful music I was to encounter and even worse-play-I find myself understanding the importance of being young and no one knowing your name.
