I’M

GOING TO

HELL FOR THESE

FLAMING

LIPS

A reality check

For Generation Y in the form of

A socio-political psychoanalysis of society

Regarding the subjects of Life and Death

or

A guide to understanding

the Mad Hattress

As told by

Paige Roxy

Featuring

Lolly Jane

To the work of Peter Gabriel

The show of Perry Farrell

The voice of Janis Joplin

The words of Oscar Wilde

The soul of Jerry Garcia

& the hope of Wayne Coyne

For keeping me alive when my family didn’t know what to do and

my friends were unavailable to

Because if you had never lived, I would surely have never

survived

t.D,D.t

:

0101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101

0101010101010101010101010101010

(LOL & Laurie Anderson LY)

/

<forever3

\

R.I.P. Ken Kesey

If I could have any, a conversation with you

I imagine we will speak in Heaven in another dimension

UN INTELLIGENT AC KNOWLEDGE

The people I love know I love them. I hope many of them never read this,

because I want them to continue to love me. There is a reason I have not

included names.

It took a team of people to write this, and even more people to live it. I have

had the greatest support system known to mankind. You can’t possibly

imagine how fucking wonderful it feels to know there are so many people

who give so many fucks about my life after life took all of my fucks. To

everyone I’ve ever known, that’s obvious; you have my deepest and most

sincere gratitude from the bottom of my slaughtered, healing heart.

Truly, the only personal acknowledgement I need to make is to the girl that

once lived in my room. For I feel the things that have happened to me have

probably happened to you. For if you had never been where I was, I would

never be where I am. Had you not left behind your Bible and sad stories for

me to find in our basement, I don’t know that I would have found myself. I

truly have you to thank, almost more than anyone, for what I have become. I

only ever met you once, when you came back to see the house you once

lived in, but I was still young. You scared me, because at the time, I didn’t

know what to be afraid of but everything. You left me a note card and I don’t

think I ever read it. If I did, I don’t remember what it said. I was told you were

a schizophrenic and at the time and that scared me, too. Anything I didn’t

know, I couldn’t understand and anything I couldn’t understand was just

scary. I wish you would have come back again. After getting older, being

unable to escape the walls that held our piles of shit, unable to escape an

inevitable insanity within us, I wish you would have come back to me. I wish I

would have already found your books and read them and loved them and the

world, living and Dead, so that we could have met as I am when you were.

Or, as I hope, still are. To you my biggest thank you, stranger, for being a

mysterious and absolutely curious magic manifested in my life.

My family, man. My cousins—shit, ma cuzins. My dearest animals of the

forests and basements and garages and fields. Ma homeboys, my girlfriends;

ma mans, my WOMEN. My royalty. My Ghosts. The Healthy Highons. LOLBJs!

Dude, these people… You don’t even understand.

And O.M.G., Naaaatalieeeeee <3.

I know such incredible people that I am eager to meet more incredible

people. Their words have spoken to me, and so I speak.

For them, I have become fearless and full of love.

But really…

Moms, dads, families, nuns.

Stop here.

All you need to know is that you don’t need to know.

CONTENTS

Forward

1. Sup Fine Shit Bye:

A rough explanation and creation of a mythical creature

2. Growing Up Stiff:

The time spent in the death grip of the Catholic church

3. An Impending Doom:

A period in which existence becomes a question

4. The Discovery of Universal Consciousness:

Finding the self and living the Scientific Method

5. Sex, Drugs, and Dubstep:

The shocking and expensive truth to a teen in the new millennium

6. Rock Hopping:

Hitting rock bottom so hard you knock yourself up to retirement

7. Fearless Freaks, Shameless Geeks, & Practical Women:

‘If the world is ending, what does anything matter?’ Generation Y asks

8. A Long And Strange Trip, Indeed:

How life can sometimes become American Beauty

I figure…

If you can’t ask permission…

You can always ask forgiveness

Bless me Mother, for I sin

Let’s begin…

YOU CAN’T MOVE FORWARD LOOKING BACK

“The test begins now”

I sat at my grandma’s dining room table next to my father and we briefly

discussed the Catholic church and myself:

“[Father] is my favourite priest!”

“Maybe we should go visit him, then. Go to church.”

“Why?”

“To talk to Father.”

“I have nothing to talk to him about because we have nothing in

common.”

“Like he’s going to Heaven?”

Ha. Ha. It is titled this way for a reason.

***

“Suburbia” is probably the most interesting place I could have grown up. In

comparison to the surrounding suburbs, I nearly feel fortunate that Suburbia

is where I landed.

I almost hate myself for saying that because I meant every word even

though I really do hate it more than anything I’ve ever known.

The city was founded on strong religious morals and family values. It is a

town that takes pride in the safety of its people from the rest of the world. It

is built in a dream that you can separate yourself from society and stay pure

of the sins that cover it. While many of the young residents of Suburbia plan

to stay and follow in the conservative footsteps of their parents, the rest of

us have done all we can to shake things up. With two major freeways

running perpendicular to one another through this fair city, it takes twenty

minutes to get out and far away and riding east for twenty minutes will take

you to the hood. Perhaps this is where the founders of the idealistic and

white-bred conservitoria of American Dream went terribly wrong. Somehow,

in the midst of this quiet and crimeless town, there is a destructive tunnel of

illegal underground activity happening right beneath the very noses that

went years rejecting all that we are.

After being settled for a time, the idea of somewhere else begins to intrigue

people. There is always a desire to go where they have never been, usually

in hopes that something better is waiting for them. I suppose as a people, we

have a curiosity to travel this small planet we live on. While people as a

whole have covered the planet, there is a trend of groups of people feeling a

need to continue to circle the world. It is almost like a first world mentality, if

you will. The pilgrims came to America to escape religious persecution. They

ironically took the land from the Native on a murderous rampage for more,

and settled in as farmers. When the Industrial Revolution began, people

were beginning to become discontent with life in the open country and left

their farms for factories. Urban cities were on the rise, creating more

“opportunities” like new jobs, or, in essence, purposes for living. Working

jobs that didn’t involve as much time-consuming labour left people with time

for luxury. With luxury came gluttony, glamour, and a new kind of greed.

Depression and war ran rampant through cities that once held promise to the

people who moved away from the country, or risked life itself fleeing their

own countries in hopes of finding this “something better”. The towers built in

gold were now rotting away. When there is not enough for everyone, you get

the worst out of anyone. It was around this time a certain sense of

community was lost. Because the supply was no longer meeting the demand,

crime and drug use were beginning to increase. Many people want to blame

an influence of African American culture that has come out of our modern

ghettos as the source for the downfall of civilization, but it is what we, the

pilgrims, left for them to go on. We created the business of trafficking long

before they did—in fact, isn’t that exactly how they got here? The Man has

always been in control of both legal and illegal business. When one fails, the

other booms. We never made a full recovery from the stock market crashing

in the 20s, but instead of really fixing the problem, we left it for someone

else to figure out. If Capitalism and Consumerism aren’t bringing in the

money, Crime and Punishment certainly will.

They ran from cities to the safe-haven of uniform houses outside of them,

and thus, the birth of the suburbs: an idea that people can be kept from the

dangers and temptations of life. What makes me laugh the most is that

these people who wanted to keep their children sheltered from all the evils

of the world that infected the urban cities—when that way of life was no

longer the dream, but a realized nightmare—created it in the very place they

sought to escape it. In the attempts of essentially sheltering the young from

the rough and tough streets no longer paved in silver, they have

inadvertently given home to it. The children born into a life that lacks a drive

for survival due to steady incomes and expensive taste has left a restless

and bored generation lost in space. We became bored of having nothing to

do and no reason to keep going. The generation drifting without a purpose

needed something to keep them grounded to Earth, and the best solution

sounded like breaking the law. Something to live for and something to die

for, because these are the two things promised to everyone everywhere:

living and dying.

If you give people nothing to live for, they don’t really care if they are alive.

This is why many people, especially ones stuck in grids apart from the guts

and glory of our society, participate in reckless and potentially fatal behavior.

They simply do not care what happens in Life because most people feel a

mostly purposeless existence. We have nothing left to do because we no

longer have to worry about survival. Some people enjoy this life, others do

not. Nothing is permanent, so a lot of feeling is lost. A lot of human emotion

is suffocated, usually by outside influences—be it education, technology,

drugs, etc. People over time become accustom to finding ways to keep

themselves busy, regardless of the amount of trouble it could bring to them

because either way, they are going to die. Some people use school as a

motivation to be a functional member of society. Technology in the form of

entertainment is a very good tool in keeping people distracted from

questioning the world around them. Drugs disconnect people from reality

altogether.

Religion is often used as a means to control the actions of a group of people

by giving them something to look forward to in Death that can only be

obtained for good behaviors and ultimate devotion to a certain way of Life.

This is why the government refuses to separate church and state. We have

seen this play over the course of history. In a sense, it prevents people from

choosing the things in Life that kill you in hopes that you will live another Life

when you’re finished with this one. The less of an outside influence you have

on your body and soul, the better of a chance that your next life will be more

enjoyable. Though it is not entirely abolished, there is an obvious separation

of church and state, leaving the church with little power over today’s youth.

To them, we are the heathens of the world. For the first time in our country’s

short history, our generation is not run by a particular religious sect to unify

and control the highest population of young people to be here yet. With life

expectancy at an all time high, we are an age that ages faster than we

mature.

America has become a ruthless society that capitalizes on the sex appeal of

women, promotes the use of drugs, and instills the value of money to life.

Our economy and our government are in shambles, and we are doing

absolutely nothing to fix it. It is hard to listen to people tell us what to do

when life as we know it is in the process of completely falling apart. Our

parents and their parents expect us to live the lives that they lived, or to not

make the same mistakes that they did. What they don’t realize—or at least

refuse to admit—is that Life as they knew no longer exists. It is hard to

ignore what have become the norms. It is not unusual to want or have the

things advertised on our televisions, radios, computers, cell phones, and

around every corner you look. It just so happens that the things we strive for

are not necessary to survival, only luxury. We have become lazy because we

work for money. The working class and up do not have to undergo physical

trial and error for food or shelter, we just have to work for the money to get

these things. It leaves us spare time to be destructive because we have

nothing left to build. We spend time advancing in technology that is getting

us nowhere but further apart from one another.

Is that the point of technology? Is the idea to eventually take human-to-

human contact and replace it with a hand-held device that could occupy you

in any way a person can? You can ask it a question and it will tell you the

answer. You can socialize or play games and say whatever you want to

whomever you want, where ever they may be. You can watch TV, use the

Internet, and navigate your way around the world. Whatever your heart

desires, your phone provides. What does that mean for people? What are we

doing to our own society and why? The point to life, in the feral sense, is to

survive. What do you do when you have everything you need at the touch of

a button? Keep yourself busy by giving you everything you want at your

fingertips. It seems as if Life’s general purpose—referring once more to

survival—can no longer apply to the human race. It is diminishing the

collective morale day by day, with many turning to not only their forms of

entertainment but also different substances to keep their minds distracted

from the fact they live a somewhat pointless existence. This is the

beginnings of the Technological Revolution, where everything that once

mattered is no longer of importance. Perhaps we are already in the midst of

this revolution. If we are really lucky, maybe it will soon be over.

But what next? Man has built so far up, he cannot go any higher. Man has

built so far out, he is touching himself. Man has built so far in, we can no

longer see ourselves.

What meow?

It is not a secret that no one seems to know what to do. Everything as we

know it is on its slow spiral downward and we don’t want to necessarily try to

stop it because we don’t know exactly where it’s going and it sounds like an

awful lot of effort to have to stop a force as strong as Everything. People can

sort of feel something is not right, but most of them look the other way and

hope for the best. And that’s okay. I don’t think it is a bad thing for people to

want to ignore the big things and enjoy the little things. If you can be happy,

by all means, do it. Be happy. But for those of you who cannot be happy,

however, this one goes out to you. For anyone who has ever questioned

anything, I write the following to you.

I don’t want anyone to think I believe I can’t be wrong. Most people that I

have met have this idea engraved deep inside their heads that I can’t be

wrong. I can be. I can even admit to it when I am. Anyone that has ever

proved me wrong can tell you that I can admit to it. I’m sorry if you aren’t

one of those people. I apologize when I feel I should and for that, I expect

one when I think I deserve one. I know my opinions don’t agree with

everyone… Or, in reality, most people. I am aware I am very radical. I know if

I am going to portray myself as radically as I think, I am going to turn heads.

That doesn’t mean my goal is to turn heads. The point to my existence is to

get people to be themselves because I feel like we have this stupid idea that

we have to impress each other all of the time. The ideas of formality and

professionalism baffle me more than slightly. This doesn’t mean I am

completely rude all the time. I have manners. I just don’t always use them. I

know when it is appropriate to be polite, and if you think that is all the time,

well. I guess you are one of the many people who disagree with me.

Regardless of personal feelings, I’d like anyone that reads this to tell me

what they think about it. I mean, this is literally the book of thought in my

head, and if you are willing to read the thoughts in my head, I’d like to know

the thoughts in yours. Even if we disagree, if by chance we do agree, I’d love

to hear someone else’s opinion. Tell me why I’m wrong or let me know if you

think I’m right. Tell me what you disagree with or let me know if you agree.

Tell me what trips you out or let me know if you want to trip harder, ya dig? I

know it’s a lot to handle all at once. Pace yourself as necessary.

Though I recommend you read fast and

slow down.

I am not here to harm or hurt feelings. I come in peace, I go in peace. I just

have a lot on my mind and I think some of it might be useful to someone

somewhere in the sea…

It’s like: I’m helping myself by getting all this shit out of my head, and I’m

hoping that in helping me, it might help someone else. And maybe when that

person has helped themselves, they can help someone else. I’m here to help

because nothing seems okay but no one seems to care and if they do care,

they don’t know what to do about it. Or, if they do know what to do about it,

they don’t seem to be doing it. So I’m taking initiative to try to get

something done. I’ve taken on so much in my own life and lives connected to

mine that I have now taken the weight of the world and willingly put it on my

shoulder.

Uh suhin’.

Let me tell you, it fucking hurts. I think it’s about to break my neck or snap

my brain but if I can accomplish anything with this weight, then I think it will

have been well worth my spine. What am I really trying to accomplish,

though? I know what I would like to accomplish, but is it possible? Is peace

plausible? Will happiness ever happen? Can hope become faith and faith

become freedom? Can hate become love and can love live without fear? But

how can you measure the success of an idea? How can you judge a theory?

And what if there aren’t answers to my questions, anyway? Either way, what

I really want is the whole world to smile all at once. Even if it is only once.

Just to see what could happen.

***

I suppose there are plenty of things the Vatican and I disagree upon.

According to their own rules, my dad and I are correct in saying I’m going to

“Hell.” (You know, that right there.) I don’t believe in Hell. I don’t believe in

Heaven. I don’t believe in God. I believe in the Universe we exist in, and that

we are all a part of this greater consciousness about us. And I don’t think I

should have to tell a stranger, or someone I have to see often, all of my sins

to be forgiven. I don’t feel that any of my actions have hurt God because I

don’t believe in him, and even when I did, I didn’t believe in having to please

him all of the time. I think if He is as great as they claim He is, He’ll love me

no matter what. The idea of the priest is that he is your middle man to God,

so you tell him your sins, and he tells God. I’m cutting out the middle man,

and I don’t think there’s a God to get the message to.

I think many of the things I have done have been morally questionable, but

they are things that I have done. I may not be proud of everything, but I

regret nothing. Without making the stupid decisions of a rebellious youth, I

would never be the person I am. But now, I come clean. And who better to

confess to than whomever the fuck cares enough to read it? Why ask

forgiveness of someone who I don’t think is there, when I could just ask

forgiveness of the world around me? I’m here meow! What happens when I

die doesn’t make a difference of how I’m gonna live, even if I’m going to Hell

for this.

“For this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago”

SUP FINE SHIT BYE

“Is it wrong to think it’s love when it tries the way it does?”

“Hey!”

“Sup”

“How are you?”

“Fine”

“What’s new?”

“Shit”

“So good to see you!”

“Bye”

***

Everything about your life is described in one word. For as long as you

interact with other human beings, you will be asked the question, “How’s

life?” Most people automatically respond with, “Good.” Some people—people

who are truly content—have no problem with saying good. For those who do

not find life bad must find life to be quite good. Some people say good to

avoid how life really is because nine out of ten times, whoever’s asking

doesn’t have time to care about how your life really is. Six out of nine of

those times, you don’t want to tell them, anyway. When someone asks me

that question, or, “How are things?” or, “How you livin’, baby?” I can’t bear

to come out with something as easy or falsified as, “Good.” It is rare that the

only way I feel about life is good. I have much stronger emotions and a much

wider vocabulary to automate the word good as the answer to those

questions. If, in essence, my life is going to be described in one word, it is

going to be one to apply to my life. Life isn’t always good. It can be worse or

it might even be better. I have come to the conclusion that there is only one

word that can describe my life. No matter if I am mixed in with the pits at the

bottom of the barrels or flying above the birds, planes, and clouds

themselves, things are always ridiculous. My life is, as well as all that I am,

absolutely ridiculous.

Lauren is a name that doesn’t suit “ridiculous” very well. I find it to be so

boring because my whole life, I’ve known so damn many of them. Lauren is

kind of a drunken whore’s name. Or it is the name of the quietest smart girl

in the class. I’m okay with being a book worm, but people would sooner

assume me a drunken whore than the innocent girl in the corner. I guess I’ve

been both, so I couldn’t be mad about it either way. Clearly, I have since

abandoned my birth name. I have not used my last name now not because I

don’t want to be associated with my family, but because I wouldn’t force my

family to be associated with this which I shall go to their Hell for.

Important side note: My dad took my mom to a concert whilst I stayed in her womb,

making RUSH the first concert I ever attended. Maybe that’s why I don’t like the Beatles.

That was probably not what you would have expected me to follow that with. I don’t know, it

is better we get this out of the way now:

Maybe I am just my father’s daughter, but Rush is the greatest band ever.

They aren’t my favourite, and they aren’t the most popular, but greatest? Undoubtedly. Just

because Tom Sawyer annoys the suckin’ fuck out of you doesn’t mean that Rush is a fuckin’

suck. Face it, nobody rocks a bass like Geddy Lee except for Tony Levin and Chris Squire.

Neil Peart is pretty much the greatest drummer alive because the only two drummers good

enough to compete with him are Keith Moon and John Bonham. Oh shit. Greatest drummer

alive. And Alex Lifeson may not be Jimi Hendrix, but at least he is a talented guitar player

actively making music—dude, they are still actively making music!—because Generation Y

has produced nothing of standard. Generation X at least had John Mayer.

But because the nerds that play Dungeons and Dragons like Rush, it’s not cool to like Rush.

So instead of judging them based on talent and merit or anything legitimate, everyone hates

Rush because it’s not cool to like Rush. But the Beatles are super popular so they must be

totally awesome, right? I know that they allowed music to flourish as we know it today and

debatably caused the fall of the U.S.S.R., which is why they are “the greatest band ever”. I

appreciate musical freedom, but it doesn’t make me like pop music any more. I don’t hate

the Beatles, but no, I don’t fucking like them, either and no, I don’t fucking have to just

because everyone else does. Maybe I’m just jealous of them. Either way, I find some of their

songs to be okay and the rest mostly annoy me. Okay, dad. If you’re reading this, that’s the

proudest you will ever be of me. Hold onto this moment forever and put the book down to

never pick it up again.

So shoot me. Or stop reading. Or accept me for my rebellious ways in my

heathen lifestyle.

Being a product of Suburbia, I am the definition of middle. I am the middle

child of a middle class family that lives off of Middle road in the middle of a

middle-class city. Above me, the upper-middle; below me, the lower-middle;

and I, physically and socially, dead-center of it all. Somehow, I turned out to

be the very opposite of the middle I have lived. Aside from, of course, being

a total stereotypical middle child with “middle-child syndrome” or, in other

words, being the black sheep fuck-up of my family. But somehow, I turned

out to know absolutely no middle ground.

I have a real bad habit of speaking my mind. If I am talking, it is whatever

thought happens to be in my head. And if I’m thinking too much, I won’t talk.

Or sometimes, I won’t shut up. I’m a bit of, what I have been told, a walking

contradiction. I find myself an absolute human paradox. Like I’m a myth or

something. I don’t know how to accurately describe myself in any other way.

I’m strongly misunderstood because no one expects a twenty-year-old

female to be anything but a twenty-year-old girl. I’m not, though, hence why

I’m a myth. Or a mermaid, if you want.

I have yet to meet anyone that can hold conversation to my standard that

can also appreciate glitter as much as I do. There are few boys in girls’

bodies but few men this feminine. There are few people as “white” as I am

that can get fuckin’ ghetto like I do. I don’t know many writers. I don’t know

any writers that smoke as much marijuana as I do because people who

smoke this much weed don’t do much of anything. Sometimes, I feel like the

last beatnik on the planet! I keep up with men when it comes to checking out

women, but I’m completely straight.

Well, no one is completely straight but I prefer dicks to chicks. Best we get

that out of the way now. No matter how badly you and I would love to

believe I’m a total fucking lesbian, I know for a fact I’m not. And yet I hate

the idea of being ogled at for the way I look, but complain that I don’t have a

man.

I’m different, to say the least. I’ve never fit in very well be it the days I was

picked on for no reason in preschool or the days I gave them a reason to pick

on me as a Gothic kid in a Catholic school. It has been the greatest

annoyance and most secretive blessing in my life, to be this weird. It only

bothered me for a moment. The rest of my life has only been better for it,

even if it is a terribly lonely swim.

I think there is a difference between being smart and being intelligent. Being

smart is to know things and being intelligent is understanding things; the

educational difference between books and streets. Between my formal and

informal educations—from what I’ve learned, from what I’ve seen—I think

something’s up and I think I kind of know what it is. But no one believes me

because I’m also textbook insane. I think insanity and intelligence coincide,

but I am my own therapist.

Hey, I’m still here.

It rings so strongly as conceit but I am honestly very self-conscious. That’s

why I often write me off as insane like the rest of the world has. I don’t

believe in mental illness, though. I think our brains began to rot as they

developed and we gave ourselves less to do. The first world was filling with

abundance and our health was getting better. After the body goes the mind.

Our species drove us insane over time. I don’t believe in mental institutions

fixing people who have been diagnosed with these mental illnesses, either.

And I most definitely do not think—in fact, I would go as far as to say I know

regardless of the fact that I haven’t gone to medical school—that drugs are

ever an answer to said mental madness. Ever. There are cases in which

people need to be medicated over time, but I do believe the situation could

always be prevented if treated at early stages.

Most people just need someone to listen to what they have to say. Or maybe

they need a vacation. Or to move and start over. The purely insane are

usually very smart people being highly observant of the world around them

and knowing some sort of information that other people don’t understand or

don’t even care to hear, hence my belief that insanity is unwarranted

intelligence. Some people are just sad and need a reminder that they are the

greatest part about their life. And some people don’t hear it. They give up on

life. People need people to get through life. But it is easier to build a habit on

a drug than it is to love. Honestly. We don’t have time for ourselves, how

could we have time for anyone else? Too many people care about all the

wrong things in life. Your job doesn’t suck because you have a job. Having a

kid isn’t a chore because you are an animal and you are here to reproduce.

Get pregnant and don’t want one? Don’t keep it. You are an animal, but you

have a giant brain in your head to decide whether or not you should. So

many people want or believe their lives are so terrible. At least where I am.

Where not much is happening. The hidden suburban cities lying around the

block from the world. When you live in a suburban city like mine, you have

three options:

1. You pick someone to knock up or get you knocked up, have a happy

picket-fenced life with children and nine-to-five jobs and never leave.

2. Instead of the typical nuclear suburban, you have a kid and never grow

up, continue to get fucked up, and still never leave.

3. You leave.

I guess people that don’t leave or ever truly discover happiness need the

drama of fighting and the thrill to risk dying in order to enjoy Life. And then

certain people can’t take anymore and pass. Or maybe they think it is fun…

Whatever it is, it’s sad. Especially when we speak so sorely of drugs, some of

which aren’t as harmful as they could be helpful, while distributing pill upon

pill upon pill of drugs that are just as if not more dangerous than the ones

you get off the street. Drugs are simply there to take up time. Social

Darwinism, a crutch of the economy, a waste of money; however one would

prefer I scream it.

I feel like I am a drug. I don’t do drugs because I am a drug and a drug

people take in all the wrong ways, at that. Not in the style of Salvador Dali, I

don’t think, because he used it in the plural. I think he kind of had the

imagination of drugs. He embodied all that drugs are, and that’s why he

didn’t do drugs. He can’t do himself. But I am a drug. I am not like any other

drugs or all drugs or any of that, I just am another one of them. People like

me because I make them feel euphoric, mostly about themselves. I am a

dazzling visual display because I simply give no fucks and do as I please. I

sound funny or say funny things and this is entertaining to people, which I

only say because they tell me this. I can never do much more than introduce

myself—or give someone a bump of me? Most people can’t exactly jive with

me after a certain point. And even if they can jive, I can’t. I’m well-educated

but all too real. A dangerous combination, especially in a female.

I am very misunderstood but sort of liked by the people that don’t really use

me, so to speak—those people that only get a taste. They want more. They

always want more. But only certain people get more. What usually happens

to these people, though, they get too much. The reason they feel so good

when they are around me (on me, mind next to the gutter: not as bad as it

sounds but still made me laugh) is because I am a smiling face and smiling

naturally makes you feel happier, in the same way a drug does. I’m releasing

serotonin in your brain, which is something most chemical drugs do. I’m

making you as happy as Molly does because I’m making you smile and I’m

loving you and when I love you I can’t help but tell you how amazing you

truly are because I only know how to see the best in people. And with me,

you are not only using a drug but also using a human being. So I’ll do

anything for you. I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever felt and I’ll do

whatever I can to make your life perfect. The life I provide of the combination

of a pleasant reality and surrealist escape makes for a dangerously addicting

dependency on my hip.

That is, when you drop a fatty dose of Lolly Jane and trip your dick to the

floor. Lolly is like the most powerful hallucinogen readily available to

Suburbia. But it’s not always available. Sometimes, Lauren runs out of Lolly

tabs and you get left with way too big of a rail of some Roxy Paige.

Even the sun has a dark side.

I try so hard to be the happiest I can be but there are just those times I lose

all hope and want Everything to die. I don’t like feeling this way, but I get as

caught up in the black tar that is Roxy. I never meant to be as morbid as I

am. It just comes out when the cunt busts out. Downers are much stronger

than psychedelics. Where no amount of Lolly is enough, any amount of Roxy

is too much. It’s that nasty, dirty shit that enough of will kill you.

So I try to explain this to people when they meet me, and for some reason,

they never believe me. They have to learn the hard way, which is to get a

taste for themselves. I know I am a lot to handle, so I never have very high of

expectations to keep people in my life too long. I know the inevitable will

soon be realized and it is always that whoever can’t whatever me. Can’t

handle me, stand me, look at me, listen to me, touch me, love me, etc. I

know a lot of people don’t like me and I can’t blame them because I know it’s

a lot. I’m a lot. Some people find me to be incredibly conceited or super

egotistical but I have simply paid attention. I have collected the data of my

experiences and conversations with other people and these are the results.

Everyone wants to treat everyone the same. Just because we are all created

equal doesn’t mean we are all the same. There is nothing wrong with that.

We should just know what we are and are not capable of; or where our

strong points stand or weaknesses fall. I am here to help figure out the

differences. I can talk for days, never too seriously but not all that lightly,

either. I do not wish to offend the listeners. I only want to help. I am just far

more willing than anyone I’ve encountered to discuss the things we fear the

most because I’ve become unafraid.

If you continue, remember that I am open for discussion. Questions?

Comments? This is an open book as long as you keep it open.

***

For those who do not wish to get to the end, start over:

Sup Fine Shit Bye \m/

“If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight”

GROWING UP STIFF

“Those evil-natured robots—they’re programmed to destroy us”

You must already realize I was probably one weird fucking kid. When I was

three, JC Penny wanted to turn me into a child model because I guess I was

that damn cute. My mom didn’t let them because I’ve always been this hard

to handle. When the weather was warm, I wore the same thing every day.

This outfit consisted of a homemade poodle skirt intended to be worn for one

fiftieth birthday party; a training bra I didn’t need covered in cherries; and

pink sequined, fringed cowboy boots. I loved to ride my tricycle and sing

Home on the Range about where the deer and the cantaloupe played. I was

also overly anal about my shoes for some reason. I remember a pair of

sneakers with Esmeralda the Disney gypsy on them. I loved those white

socks with the Scrunchy-lookin’ tops at the ankles. I guess I didn’t just care

about how my shoes looked, I also really cared about how they felt. My poor

mother. Before I could do it myself, I would make her put my shoes on and

take them off and readjust and put them back on over and over and over

again. Life of a problem child. Clearly, I was destined for insanity.

I try not to regret anything I do or be upset about anything that happens. I

try, anyway. There will always be exceptions to any rule I could come up

with. In retrospect, I’m quite happy with everything that’s happened, and the

way it has happened. I thank God he doesn’t exist and I’m not a full-blood

Italian. I cannot, however, say I’ve been happy the whole way here. I feel as

though eleven years of Catholic schooling has done me some good, but it

was not the most enjoyable eleven years spent.

Having received both private and public education, I can most definitely

appreciate the money well spent on Catholic schooling. I think I got the best

out of a situation I struggled with the first half of my life. In retrospect, I can

honestly say it was worth it.

I attended a Catholic preschool that was, in short, the shit. They didn’t really

like my style of clothing or my loud singing, but that was okay. I enjoyed

being there, even if they didn’t enjoy me being there. We sang songs and did

crafts and ate snacks and didn’t wear uniforms and only went to chapel once

a month and read children’s books ourselves and learned multiplication and

spoke some Spanish and respected the variety of religions instilled in the

variety of children that were under one convent roof but still had to pray

even if they didn’t. I had so much fun there, but I was also taught more in

those three years than it seemed most kids learned in their first three years

of elementary school.

I never once imagined the entire time I was there that I would have ever

been of all things grateful for Saint D’s.

St. D is a Catholic school on the boarder of Suburbia but technically located

in Wasteland—a suburb Suburbia thought was hood. They provide education

from early preschool through the end of middle school. In my years

attending, students were required to wear a typical Catholic school uniform.

This included white blouses for the “lower el” (first through fourth grade) and

white polos for the “upper el” (fifth through eighth grade). The boys wore

navy blue dress pants because corduroy was banned after my first year,

which was a real bummer, and the girls had the option of pants or ugly plaid

jumper (lower el) or skirt (upper el). Kindergarten and under were exempt

from uniforms. Lucky bastards.

This is a typical Catholic school uniform. The colours and plaid vary. Catholic

school imposes uniforms in the principle that if every child looks the same,

they will all be treated by others in the same way. It is thought to promote a

sense of unity or something among the students.

It’s good for morale?

It’s the only way to teach morals?

It’s…

Well, it’s stupid.

All a uniform does is stifle personal creativity and suffocate self-expression.

This is not good for kids. I’m sure it makes getting ready for school every

morning much easier for many parents, but I think mine would be the

exception to that statistic. I fucking hated my uniform. Even as a child, I

could not comprehend why I had to wear a uniform. I think it probably

bothered me the most because even when we were all the same finger, I still

stuck out like a sore thumb. Or maybe I’m just the longest middle finger.

After all, I was always the tallest girl in my class.

Ha ha.

Every morning must have been a personal hell for my parents. Getting

dressed was absolute torture to my young and naïve mind. Waking up a

night owl was bad enough. Throwing that bitch in a uniform and it is game

over. I hated having to wear the same damn thing every damn day. I have

always been this loud and obnoxious and the monochromatic scheme of my

under-dramatic clothing was such a bore. I hated it. I didn’t want to wear a

skirt. I didn’t want to button my shirt to the collar. And you know what?

Maybe I wanted to pop my collar. Or wear more than one piece of jewelry. I

wanted to wear shoes I liked. I wanted my hair to be purple. Anything but

blue and white.

I think my biggest issue now with uniforms is that I was still picked on. All

throughout elementary school, for whatever personal reasons held, I was

always the odd one out.

After the first year or two of uniforms and totalitarian rule, I was beginning to

get tired of the routine my Life was. Of course, the details of my childhood

are so very vague to me now on account of the things that have happened

since then, but some devil of a rebel inside me was born at a young age. As

much as I appreciate the education I received over the course of the eight

years spent inside a small building shaped like a “D”, I cannot say I agree

with everything they do. In fact, I don’t agree with most of it.

Formal education is most definitely beneficial for a developing brain. I

suppose I can’t compare a Catholic elementary or middle school level

education to a public one because I didn’t get both; I can only compare

eleven years of one to four years of the next. I could, however, tell a

difference in my education from many of my peers. I was being taught

“your” and “you’re” (etc.) in the tenth grade and Generation Y still fucks that

shit up on a daily. I think Catholic school when well for me solely because I

refused to be brainwashed into being Catholic. I think it can almost be

dangerous to development for being Catholic. I don’t think children should be

lied to.

Children will believe whatever you tell them because they don’t know any

better—they don’t really know anything. I can understand why parents want

to shelter their children. I get it, I do. It’s a very scary place out there and

quite frankly, there are people like me. I get why parents want to prevent

their children from being exposed to the abundance of evils in the world,

especially at an age in which they still have their innocence. The problem is

that sheltering a child is not to do it any good. Even if you are successful in

keeping your child’s innocence for most of its life, you are not helping them

as a part of society. Sure, you are keeping them pure and clean or whatever.

Cool. But when something bad does happen, or when they do run into

someone like me, what are they gonna do?

More often than not, the sheltered kids are the ones that seek the danger

they had been sheltered from. Case and point: this guy right here. But that

didn’t happen until high school. And that’s… A whole another chapter.

I wish you had the option of getting a Catholic school education without the

religious bullshit and without having to pay three times the amount of

money. What is wealth but of oneself? You can fix stupid but you can’t create

intelligence. Or perhaps vice versa. Or can you do both? Or maybe it just

depends on the person. Or where they are. Or who they are taught by. Some

people are lucky to be born smart due to genetics. Some people who

shouldn’t or, rather, aren’t expected to be smart sometimes are. Or maybe

more kids would be a lot smarter if you believed they could be and didn’t

make them feel so fucking badly when they weren’t.

Because there are so many people living on such a small planet, we are not

seen as individuals. We are grouped together based on our surroundings. We

are categorized and put aside accordingly, determinate of the side you

reside on. It’s all biased and bullshit. We, as a country, decided we were

somewhat disappointed in ourselves with the low ranks we had on the global

scale of education. We decided we needed to take the shit more seriously or

something. This lead to slightly more rigorous but not much different

graduation requirements and drug dogs sniffing out the high schools at

random every few months. Instead of trying to make things more difficult,

why don’t you change the way they are? Clearly, if most of the other

countries of the world are doing so much better than us, we are doing

something wrong. Americans are full of brute force. There are just certain

times it is good to have some strategy. We want to strengthen our force.

When we should be thinking of a new gameplan, we’re stuck trying to

reinforce the original one due to our inability to admit we are wrong.

Demanding a child to do better at something it cannot do is not going to

make it any better at the task at hand, it will only make the child self-

conscious about all the other tasks you give it. If you really want to improve

the educational system, try some other extreme if you have to be so

goddamn extreme.

Can you believe that maybe your whole life doesn’t always come from

books? I love books. I have always loved to read. I am Lauren the book worm

(though it’s really hard to read a book when you’re writing one). But I like to

read the books that I like to read. I think a lot of kids are discouraged from

reading because they are told what books to read and sometimes, they don’t

like the books they are given. Said children are often reprimanded for not

liking the books they are given because it is assumed that they don’t like

these books or don’t want to read these books because they want to be

rebellious. We assume that if a child cannot concentrate on school, there is

something wrong with him. The child is thought to either be punished until it

reads the books or put on medication to make him want to read the books.

But did anyone ever stop to think that maybe it isn’t the child? Maybe it’s

just the book.

This is honestly the most important time in our lives. Who you become in

your prepubescent years is who will grow in your adolescent years. This is

when you have to teach a person how to live life, not when they have their

whole life ahead of them! But then again, maybe we are not wanted to figure

anything out until we’re too old to do anything about it. Yeah, that sounds

like what they could be doing. Otherwise, I don’t have an explanation as to

how you can’t raise better children unless you want them to spend their

entire lives trying to fix themselves.

The thing I like about religion is school is the ability it gives the school to

teach morals, ethics, and discipline. Kids need these things in childhood or

they grow up careless of the world around them and more hazardously,

themselves. From what I have seen and come to understand, public school

gives you the information and leaves it up to you to interpret it. Catholic

school gives you more information and helps you interpret it, while leaving

out the things they don’t like and enforcing the things they believe. That’s

why I can’t exactly agree with Catholic school or Catholicism in general.

None of the religion stuck with me by the time I “graduated” eighth grade,

but I still had some of the same ideas that I had originally learned in Catholic

school. I had just bent them, broke them, and expanded them beyond the

Catholic church. For example:

At some point in the years of Catholic education, joy went from a word to an acronym on

how to live your life.

J is for Jesus

O is for Others

Y is for You

As I got older, I dropped the J and went with OY [vey].

I’m happy I have the ability to care about other people more than myself; to

be selfless, in a way. It’s nice, but this sort of behavior actually got me nice

and fucked over in reality because I was sheltered from the evil things of the

world. I was told evil existed but if I just ignored it, it would ignore me. My

problem has always been that I question everything. People find it incredibly

annoying but I can’t help it. I don’t really care about what, I’m asking why. If

you can’t tell me why, I am not gonna stop asking. Don’t tell me what I’m not

supposed to do if you can’t tell me why I shouldn’t do it because I’ll probably

do it, even if it is simply finding out exactly why it is a bad idea. With love in

my heart and fantasy in my head, I wandered into the world ready for all the

things I never experienced because it was all I had known nothing about. I’ve

always been a better hands-on learner, anyway.

I think it’s really funny when adults who hate children try to teach them. Why

are you wasting all of this time that could have been put to good use? If you

don’t know how to deal with rowdy six-year-old boys, don’t assume the child

should be on drugs. Perhaps the child isn’t learning anything new from you

and is simply bored with a brain moving at a speed faster than the rest of the

class. He doesn’t need to be on meds, he needs more material. He needs to

fill his brain while he can. This is the most valuable time for learning in

human development. Why stunt a child with drugs? Why would you, at such

a young age, complicate a child’s life with drugs? You’re just going to turn

around and tell them not to do a whole bunch of illegal drugs and not

actually inform you of what effects these drugs have on you, they will just

tell you to say no.

SAY NO TO DRUGS,

KIDS.BUT REMEMBER TO TAKE YOUR PERSCRIPTION EVERY DAY.

Did you ever stop to think that maybe whoever taught this child before you

did a better job than you could ever do in your career of teaching? That

maybe it’s not the child at all—and if not the child, perhaps it is you? Maybe

we don’t need to put these kids who don’t care about what you have to say

on ADD or ADHD medication but instead, maybe we need to give these kids

something they care about. Instead of telling a child they are wrong for what

they want to do rather than what they are told to do, why don’t we just let

them do it?

We are all created equally because we are all born the same but that doesn’t

mean we are all meant to live the same life. Our brains are unique to our

bodies. Instead of trying to force everybody with different brains to do all the

same things, why not let each mind dictate what its body does? We are not

all good at all the same things. None of us are perfect. However, some of us

might be perfect at something others do not do. But if we are all forced to do

the same thing, how would we ever know what we’re best at, what we are

meant to do? If you make someone feel bad about what they cannot do, how

will they feel good about what they can?

Oh. They don’t.

We live in a society where nothing is good enough. No amount of money is

enough. No amount of land is enough. No amount of talent or knowledge or

crowd is ever enough. What is the point in striving toward a goal that cannot

be met, in the theory that nothing is ever good enough? There’s proof in just

about everything we do, number one example being technology. We claimed

to have landed on the moon in 1969 but instead of trying to see what else

we could find out there, we decided to continuously tweak the cell phone.

This is probably my least favourite part of society. Steve Jobs sounds like he

was a pretty cool mother fucker, but the Company needs to stop connecting

us electronically because it disconnects us humanly.

I was one of the first kids I knew with a cell phone. I was in seventh grade. I

got my mom’s old Nokia brick with a turquoise case on it and you bet your

ass I thought it was the coolest. There was almost no point to it because I

was the only kid I knew with one. My sisters got them for their thirteenth

birthdays, so I got one for mine (even though they had to wait until eighth

grade, ha ha!) I brought it to school with me everyday just because I could

but I couldn’t even text, so why did I even have it at school? Yet, I was so

grateful to have this piece of shit. Now there are eight-year-olds with nicer

cell phones than I hope to ever have because—and maybe I sound like a

pretentious humanoid—but I would rather not have a cell phone smarter

than me. Though I don’t know that you can compare human and

technological intelligence, especially because humans have created

technology.

These kids shouldn’t even have cell phones let alone phones that allow them

to be stupid. Being able to access the Internet at all times, at the tips of our

fingers, allows us to be absolutely clueless about Everything. While this

tends not to affect our developed adult minds, this could be extremely

detrimental to the growth of a young, developing mind.

If children are showed nothing but negative reinforcement, they become

unsure of themselves. If they are already disinterested in their schoolwork or

learning in general and are unsure of themselves, why wouldn’t they trust

information they read on their smart little pocket friend? You can verbally

ask it anything. Sometimes, it even has the right answer. The only way you

can know anything is by learning for yourself (to learn by experience, so to

speak), but the generation to follow ours isn’t gonna know anything. Their

entire realities are going to be based on other people’s opinions. The Internet

is public and accessible all over America. Why are you going to trust

anything it tells you?

All these kids are now days are social network profiles. It’s creepy. When we

were in middle school, we played popularity contest on E-Space and some of

us used the damn thing because we had nothing else to do on the Internet

but stupid shit like AlbinoBlackSheep or stupider shit like RateMyPoo (yes,

actual shit) or the ever-deteriorating virus that is Internet porn. Others took

it way too seriously and decided to start using it against people or whatever,

the birth of “cyber bullying,” so moms went nuts because girls were being

bitches on the Internet, shocking. But as time went on, E-Space was beat out

by E-Face. I’m sure we’ve all seen the Social Network—I, the exception to my

own rule (per usual), have not—but from what I was told back in 2006, it was

originally made for college kids. Makes since because Mark was one. Kudos;

that was a fantastic idea. Good way to get introduced to your future

classmates or get in touch with kids at other universities across the country,

that’s cool. What a great educational tool that could have been. That could

have lead to a unified, democratic, online educational system for the people

by the people. What an awesome thing that could have been.

However, Mark’s idea turned out to be too good for Capitalism to have been

used for something practical like education.

In taking away the potential E-Face could have had as something such as a

public / personal information resource, as it seemed to have been on track

for, it was left up to the Man to decide what would become of a seemingly

innocent social networking site. Riddled in ads and covered in anxiety, high

school students got a hold of E-Face and from there, middle school kids and

even younger jumped on the latest Internet craze. Where we could have

used the Internet for good, in a way, we have rotted it to fit in with the rest

of society.

The problem with adolescents and especially the prepubescent using sites

like E-Face is that they have little to no confidence in themselves. E-Space

was not actively watched by really anyone aside from the young Generation

Y and the local bands shamelessly promoting themselves nowhere. This still

caused enough of a stir to get kids in trouble at school and probably caused

a few suicides in its course of history. Now, the same age group is using a

site that is not only watched by their peers, but also by the rest of the nation

and other parts of the world. The same pressure to be popular exists, but

now everyone is involved and not just their peers. The need to fit in has sort

of become human nature. I suppose if we “like” everything that is said or

posted onto E-Face, or if we have over a thousand friends, that stuff must

make us pretty cool, right?

Wrong! What the fuck does it matter?! It’s the Internet! It’s not even real but

these kids are so engulfed in this fantasy world they can access from any

screen—at home, on their phones, anywhere there is Wi-Fi. I’d say you can’t

pay these kids to play outside, but they would do just about anything for

money. It’s really sad. In creating technology, we have destroyed childhood. I

wasn’t even a kid all that long ago and I can still see what a dangerous

change we have forced upon our next generation. There are people who still

consider me a kid at my young age of twenty, but there is still such a

spacious gap between me and this eighteen and younger crowd. As I observe

the world and its new populous, I do not see promise. I lose hope.

Or maybe I complain because I’m not cool.

Growing up, I was never stocked-full of friends or playmates. I have always

managed to have at least one friend done unto me that I could call my best.

When I first exited the womb, I had Peppy, the daughter of long-time family

friends. We grew apart as we got older, for she was normal. In preschool and

kindergarten, I had KC. We used to stay inside from recess on some days and

help our nun clean up around the classroom. If I did go outside for recess, I

didn’t really have much to do. I have always been one to be off in a corner or

parked on the sidelines. I learned to not let it bother me. It wasn’t when I was

off in my own world (now known as Lollyland!) that I would ever get upset. It

was only when the other kids were mean to me that I would get upset.

And there was this one time they were really mean.

I’m not really sure why people were mean to me. I feel like it must be hard

for three-year-olds to have problems, especially with other three-year-olds,

but I suppose they manage. There was this thing on the playground that

everyone loved more than most the other things on the playground. It was

one of those metal domes with the four animal-shaped seats attached to

perpendicular poles beneath it, made for bouncing up and down and rocking

slightly left to right on. I don’t know why this, of all things, was so much fun,

but the kids loved it. When we were let outside, every kid out there ran

straight for this thing. In retrospect, I really don’t like it. How boring to sit in

one spot! I’ve always liked to climb and hide. Some things never change all

too much.

It was the coolest to sit in the middle of this thing, on the dome. Kids piled on

the center and two or three kids would take each animal and there would be

an eruption of giggles and bounces and it would be just awesome for as

many kids as would fit. Like I said, there would be days I didn’t even bother

going out there. Some days, it didn’t seem worth the trouble or the baby

heartache. But there was this one day, man, I was third in line at the door.

This particular day, once I got across that street with my class and onto to

that grass a free child, I booked it to this stupid play thing. And let me tell

you, I was the first kid to the damn thing. I sat in the center of this dome and

I swear it was like sittin’ on top of the world. I guess we’re always sittin’ on

top of the world, though.

The other children pilled on the damn thing anywhere they could. Two or

three kids would get on each seat, and I knew some kids were gonna pile on

the center with me, too. But some kids—some kid—wasn’t vibin’ sharing this

thing with me. He pushed me the fuck off. I was carried inside crying by my

teacher while all the other kids laughed. I think that kid got in trouble. Better

than the time I pissed my pants, I guess. I consoled myself by putting good

use to the emergency clothes we all had in shoe boxes above our cubbies. I

guess I’ve always been practical.

There was one singular time I was cool. One time. I was colouring a picture of

a dog bone, as I remember, with some brightly coloured markers. I suppose

I’ve always been an artist: I coloured inside the lines. Apparently, it was a big

deal to be able to colour inside the lines. The things children care about are

absolutely hilarious to me. Upon witnessing my mad colouring skills, every

kid in my class wanted to be my best friend. The next day, KC was the only

one to be. And by the week of kindergarten graduation, someone was

shoving the crust of their peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my eye

because I didn’t like peanut butter. Now I only really like crunchy.

Kids don’t really think about these things as potentially dangerous to one’s

mental health because they don’t really have the mental capacity to do so. I

think it is, for that reason, the responsibility of parents and educators to

instill some value backed by rationale to control the behavior of children as

long as they are incapable of making their own decisions in hopes that when

they are capable, they will make good decisions. Now, the biggest problem

with that statement is that it is essentially a matter of opinion. There cannot

be much of a standard of what is right and what is wrong because we don’t

all agree on everything. This is sort of how we get extremes.

I believe Everything is black and white, but I believe Everything is black and

white. This is why I love the yin yang: a Universal balance of good and bad.

It’s so perfect and beautiful, you know? Ever since I was so young, I’ve been

so inclined toward this thing, even without an understanding of it. I don’t

know why. When I was very young, (I imagine it had something to do with

my very prevalent OCD) I liked the idea of both sides being even. I took this

elementary concept and sort of applied it to life with the help of Jesus Christ,

thus my eight years trapped in the brick walls and on the playgrounds of St.

D \m/.

Most young children are very gender bias. This is common, but not useful.

Keeping boys and girls separated at a young age causes girls to hate their

gender more often and want the other gender more often than not. To keep

genders separated at a young age adds pressure upon mixing the two, but it

is critical for sex. This is where people trip up about identity. Sex is what

your DNA has given you. Gender is what society has created for you. I have

come to learn over time that most people believe your gender determines

your sex and your sex is your gender. I do not. I personally feel that we are

all fifty percent man and fifty percent woman. I think if we are created of

both sexes we therefore consist of both genders. We all have a pussy and a

dick. I think if you can’t accept that concept, I recommend you acquaint

yourself with the year 2013.

It’s that yin and yang shit again, right?

If I was forced to label myself as one or the other, I would have to say female

is my sex but male is my gender. It happens. We all do not come out to be

what you want us to be. Sorry. I’m sorry you can’t understand what it is like

to be me. Hope you will someday. I know there are people out there who do.

I guess that’s why there are drag queens and transers and stuff. I totally get

it. I’m sorry I don’t feel a need to shave my arm pits or whatever. I haven’t

always thought of myself as a boy, but girls have always made it really

obvious that I am not a girl. For years, I tried. Sometimes, I was downright

girly. But I have always struggled with… girls.

I’m trying to be a girl this time, I really am. But you couldn’t pay me to

shave my armpits.

It’s funny because Catholic schools typically have way more boys than girls. I

wonder why this is—or maybe that is why I am. My hypotheses include:

“Boys will be boys” and rowdy boys at that, parents are more inclined

to put them under a more authoritative rule than girls

Girls in Catholic school become distractions to boys in Catholic school

and, as mentioned, it is “more important” to ensure success in the

school for said rowdy boys

There is more pressure for success forced upon males in society,

another reason their education becomes “more important” than

females

It’s sad.

Yay, we let women vote on elections that don’t matter because the Electoral

College has ultimate rule, anyway!

Are there any women in the Electoral College? Tried to find the answer to

that question on the Internet and couldn’t.

So yeah, women totally have equal rights, right?

So many girls these days and I guess for all of humanity’s existence wear the

heaviest boots around all the time about themselves. There are expectations

men are held to, once again, to be successful. As a woman, you are expected

to allow a man to do whatever he feels necessary to achieve this success.

Your success doesn’t truly matter because it’s not taken all that seriously

simply because you don’t have a dick…

After leaving preschool and entering a new school, my outcast overcast

came with me. Catholic school was especially particular with gender

separation because of their strong beliefs in celibacy until marriage and

abstinence as birth control.

DON’T HAVE SEX,

KIDS.BUT EVERYTHING WE PUT ON YOUR SCREENS WILL INVOLVE ONLY THE

MOST ATTRACTIVE PEOPLE AND HALF OF THEM WILL BE HALF NAKED.

I never fit in with anyone because girls thought I was weird and boys thought

girls were weird so I was always the weirdest thing on the playground. Every

day on the playground would be me asking some girl if we could play

together and her telling me she could only play with one person a day and I

should ask to play with her tomorrow but she was always playing with the

same two girls so you know what I did?

I asked her every damn day.

And I’d end up on a swing.

And I imagine that’s where Shrimpie came along and ended that.

Thank God or whatever because I still think about her now and I just think of

how wonderful of a person she is and how she really was the best friend I

could have ever had. She got me a fucking Sega Genesis for Christmas once.

She knew me so well. It’s a shame I’ve lost all shame or maybe we would still

be friends.

It is important for kids to feel important, especially when they are young. I

think the only reason I survived is because I had at least one friend. I was

given Peppy at birth. We grew apart when I turned Goth. She has a kid now.

I’m really happy for her. Then, of course, was Shrimpie. She was a girl I could

be weird with. She got away with it better because she’s seriously the

fucking cutest but I’ve just never given a fuck. Because there was always

such a low number of students—especially females—all the girls generally

got along. But for some reason, I still felt like something was separating me

from everyone around me and at that time, I felt so alone. Now, I feel I was

not the only one to have felt that way. It was all so long ago; it’s hard to hold

grudges. It’s hard to remember any of it, really. I just remember that I really

hated it. It was constricting and boring and not at all friendly. I guess I am

the opposite of Catholic school.

Despite the fact that I sort of hated every minute of it, I truly appreciate the

education I received. I have to say that my mother and father spent their

money well. I am a smart kid. But I suppose that’s as far as it could take me.

It made me smart. It didn’t really teach me anything about the world. I didn’t

have cable. I mean, my Italian Grandma had cable that we watched all the

time, but all we watched were cartoons. I was always obsessed with Scooby-

Doo. My Polish Grandpa always encouraged me to be Velma, but I guess no

one expected me to end up looking like Daphne. I feel incredibly fortunate to

be both.

I have always been Lolly and I have always questioned everything and I

imagine that is why no one has ever liked me very much because I tend to

ask questions people have a hard time answering. My mother’s sisters would

take me and my cousins on “Trips Around The World” (but really it was

northern Michigan or Canada.) Even among my family, I felt ostracized. I may

have too much of an imagination, or I’ve always been paranoid, or I really do

ask way too many questions. I suppose that’s why Aunt California chose to

call me Lolly, like the Schoolhouse Rock song, “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly Get Your

Adverbs Here” as preformed by Buffalo Tom because we listened to

Schoolhouse Rock Rocks. It is a compilation of classic Schoolhouse Rock

songs covered by popular 90s bands. In addition to my fabulous Catholic

school education, I would attribute this album to my wealth of knowledge.

Music is a great way to teach kids. I retained every word to almost every

single one of those songs, which means I retained the information sung in

each song. And let me tell ya something else, I retained it way better than

the shit spit at me my whole life.

I’m also grateful I puked the religion out of my education. God is simply

another form of government. The government is not meant to tell people

how to live morally. It only tells us what happens if we do things it does not

agree with. We are written tickets or put in jail when we do things the

government tells us not to do. God banishes us to Hell if we don’t do what we

are told. Don’t worry though, even if you sin, as long as you say you’re sorry,

he’ll forgive you. If you confess to your sins and pray enough, you’ll totally

get into Catholic Heaven lol. What a lazy religion. We’re gonna set some

rules, ask you to follow them, but absolve you of your wrong doings as long

as you are willing to tell a priest what you gone done. Is that supposed to be

the deal breaker? The priest?

I’ll be honest, I told my priest the same list of the most innocent sins every

six months we went to confession after the second sacrament that is

reconciliation.

LOL “I lied to my parents, I fought with my siblings, I didn’t do my best in

school, and I don’t go to church every Sunday.” LY

Every six months, some extra priests came over to our church so the seven

and up crowd could confess our sins and cleanse our souls. For some reason,

I always had our priest. I love the guy, but why would I want to tell some

dude I see every Friday and often times more often than that all the terrible

things I had done as the child I was? Not that anything I did was all that

terrible. I was never one to fake sick or start fights. Hell, I was the one being

bullied; I wasn’t that mean of a kid. I think my darkest sins were merely

thoughts I kept to myself or things I would do when no one was looking that

people never really noticed. I guess I never felt much of a need to be honest

with someone who doesn’t actually care about what I do because they are

going to forgive me, anyway, but I didn’t really feel a need to be forgiven.

Why should I be sorry for what I’ve done? Why should I have to ask someone

else’s forgiveness if I can just tell God in prayer, right?

But man, did I love confession with Father. I’d give him my list of bullshit and

he’d ask me about my family. Love the Catholic Italians that love the

Catholic Church. He’d ask how my Italian Grandma and her sister were and if

my brother was feeling any better because his former Crohn’s disease had

him in the hospital a lot back that. It was always a pretty chill confession

session. I wonder if he ever knew I was lying about my sins.

LOL I don’t really give a fuck LY

I love how much freedom I have. I love that I have the opportunity to say

that. But I wish I was actually allowed to do whatever I want. I feel like a

childhood of being told what to do makes me not want to do what I’m told.

Once I left elementary school, it was no longer a handful of people telling me

what to do. I was now set free in the hands of society. And I still didn’t like

what I was being told. Questioning authority is one thing, but delving into the

questions of religious authority can be somewhat troubling on a young mind.

When I was in fourth grade, I had to face Death for the first time. Many

times. I don’t know how well I understood it. I remember catching a butterfly

and caging it in plastic with the girls I lived down the street from at my old

house. There were tons of nights I had captured tons of fireflies in Mason jars

and it never affected me when I found them dead in the morning. For some

reason, when I had this butterfly and it died, I got some heavy boots about it.

I don’t know why. Maybe I had never owned something as beautiful as a

butterfly. Maybe because I didn’t have as many butterflies as I had fireflies

and so I cared more about the butterfly. I don’t know, but I think that was the

first time I met Death personally. Or that I actually cared.

Some guy in my family died and everyone wanted me to go to the funeral

but I didn’t know this mother fucker. Sorry, no hate, but as a nine-year-old

kid, I don’t care to go to the funeral of someone I didn’t really know.

“Hey, I know you didn’t know him when he was alive, but you wanna see him

dead?”

…Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though. And because my cousin—my desire—went

and she’s younger than me, the ginger aunt had to give me shit for it. Cool,

bro. I was born with no fucks. Judge me harder.

She’ll always be my cousin, though she isn’t always my friend. Most people

don’t ask because in certain ways, we look alike. In many ways, we act alike.

But I always tell people when they do:

Her dad and the woman my grandma’s brother married were adopted by the same

people. I’ve know her our whole lives. What the fuck is a cousin to you?

Some October, my Italian Grandma’s brother died. I went to that funeral.

There were so many people there and they were all so sad. I didn’t cry. I felt

bad. I treasure my times spent on his farm, located across Mile Road from

my parents’ house—though it was gone before we got there. I can’t imagine

many kids in Suburbia can say they’ve taken a horse-driven buggy down that

road. So of course, I can. I’ll always love peacock feathers because every

time we would go to his house, he’d give us one from his peacocks. I will

always hate goats because of the time his goat Frosty dragged me by her

leash from Grandma’s half-way home down a pebbled, dirt road. Or was that

the other brother’s goat? Whatever, I am so happy to have these crazy

Italians in my life. But at the end of my Great Uncle’s life, he was bound to a

bed. A Parkinson’s vegetable. I didn’t cry at his funeral because he was old

and inactive. How sad can I be?

Everyone dies. Birth is a death sentence. Most people don’t want to die most

of the time, even if they feel like dying, sometimes. If someone lives to be

ninety years old, I’m not gonna be sad. I’m going to be happy they made it

that long. Especially when they were happy with their life. Shit, sorry. I

didn’t cry.

I did cry a week later at another uncle’s funeral. He was young and she is

even younger than him. It was sad to me, because they didn’t have kids or

anything. They didn’t have much time together, either. We spent time in

their house and they had such a nice house. He was tall and he’d pick us up

over his head and we’d scream, or we’d go upstairs to sit and dangle our

legs singing a nursery rhyme to which his reply was to grab our feet because

holy cow, he could reach our feet.

I don’t think I could even tell you all the funerals I’ve been to. At one point, I

prayed to God I would be the next to die because I was sick of seeing my

family so sad at all these funerals. Another Great Uncle passed not long after

that. I went to my dad’s cousin’s funeral on my tenth birthday. I have shed

so many tears at so many funerals. I have memories of funerals without a

clue of whose they were. I have been acquainted with Death for quite some

time now. But Death, seeming so random and evil, stuck himself right

between God and me. We haven’t been the same since.

In retrospect, I don’t think I could hold it against God if he was there for not

killing me off when I was nine. Good call, Whatever You Are. I’m very happy

to be alive. But I’ve always been told that when you pray, you get what you

ask for. I didn’t. I was upset. I think in fifth grade, I was pretty good with God

still. Or I faked it. I really have no memories of fifth grade. I’m not sure why. I

do remember one thing. I think it was fifth grade when we came across

evolution in our Science books. They told us evolution was a crazy theory

scientists believe that man came from monkeys.

And we moved on.

That’s what I can’t stand about Catholic school. How are you about to force

your religion down my throat repeatedly and not allow me to hear an

opposing view? Because it’s more logical than yours? Are you afraid I might

believe what they have to say about that, is that why you keep it a secret

from us? And if that is the case, why do you believe what you believe?

Charles Darwin is one of the most brilliant minds to have existed. To say his

life’s work in a sentence—“man came from monkeys”—is complete

disrespect and for that, I just can’t respect. I’m sorry. That’s not okay with

me. It disgusts me that people are so close-minded, they can’t peacefully

disagree. They just want to be right. I’m all about debate, I’m open for

discussion, but there are two sides to every story. Fucking listen.

Or, fuck listening.

Of course, I knew nothing of Darwin in the fifth grade. I went back to

believing God or whatever. It’s too bad you can’t teach children about vibes.

Maybe you can, but I think that would also create the opportunity to fake

vibes, and that could be potentially fatal. Or maybe if people were aware of

vibes, they would put in effort to make sure they had good ones and not

such crooked ones.

Other than my social inabilities and intellectual dilemmas and spiritual crisis,

I had a pretty normal childhood. I liked a lot of the things I like now. I have

always loved music, but I listened to a bunch of shit back then. I thought the

radio was the best thing ever, you know? No, that shit sucks. I didn’t know

any better. It was cool, though, because I started going to concerts when I

was in second grade. I saw the boy bands, the pop stars, and even attended

what would have to be considered my first music festival: The All That Music

and More fest. Fuck yeah. I was pretty young when I discovered my love for

roller coasters, too. I was destined for the Life I’ve lived.

My sister and I sharing a room had a pretty strong influence on me growing

up. I adapted her style and taste, as any little sister would. The difference

was she was good at things we did and I wasn’t. It’s funny, because I’m

nothing like her now. But you can totally tell we’re sisters. Part of me wishes

the influence would have stuck for my parents’ sake. My sister is Queen of

the Good Fairies or a straight Angel. I’m the fuckin’ anti-Christ.

I took piano lessons for a really long time. I loved my piano teacher, but man.

I am so terrible at piano. Seven years and so much money for pretty much

no reason at all. Sorry, mom. Sorry, dad. Add it to my life tab of servitude

like everything else you’ve ever done for me. The dance classes paid off,

though. I can groove like there isn’t a tomorrow because we’ll never know if

there will be one!

I played mad sports. I played softball from ages six to eleven. At ten, I added

soccer and basketball to the equation. Catholic Youth Organization Sports

had no try-outs so pretty much everyone in Catholic school played sports. It

made me hate girls even more. I wasn’t that great at sports, but I did like the

idea of equality they represented.

I loved all the holidays because I love family time. The only time I saw my

cousins were at the parties we had. I still thought no one liked me, especially

because everyone loves my sister, but I had fun. It was nice when my desire

would be around so when my sisters would pair up and leave me out, I would

have someone I could hang out with.

My favourite place to be was up north. My dad’s family cottage, which was

actually a trailer with an add-on, is where my desire and I became friends.

It’s been the only time I’ve ever been on a four-wheeler and we would always

stop for the sweetest Native American souvenirs. However, I liked my dad’s

friend’s big ass cottage better. My dad stayed friends with the guys he

became friends with at his high school job. I think that’s so cool. They’re all

so much alike, too. I hope I get to keep the friends I have forever, but my

track record isn’t looking too good. Every summer, they bring their families

together for a week up north.

I loved being on the speed boat or cruisin’ off a rope on a tube behind it. I

loved being outside, day and night. I’ve always been able to appreciate

nature. Kids with technology in their hands must not give a shit about

nature. Wow, isn’t that kind of scary? These kids who will be here when all of

us are gone will probably use up the rest of what hasn’t been used up of this

dying planet because they don’t spend any time with it. They are too

concentrated on the human world to think about the fact that it is part of a

world beyond humans.

Dude. We are floating in space and all you care about is

yourself?

I think having a creator helped me appreciate creation. I guess there’s a perk

to religious life, but I am not about that life.

***

For eight years I went to church every Friday. Eight years. Some weekends, I

even went Saturday or Sunday. At a time in my life, I was an alter server and

everything. Eight years I followed every rule set before me by God’s men.

Eight years I swallowed all the bullshit placed upon my desk. Eight years I

was concerned with what people thought of me. Eight years I was terrified of

authority. Eight years I was brainwashed into being a slate for absurd

writings from church walls to manifest an idea thought by those who fear the

unknown to attempt to preserve innocence in children.

Well, six.

“Knew she’d have to come up soon for air”

AN IMPENDING DOOM

“AHHHHH!!!!!!”

Shocking news alert: I was a Goth kid in middle. Oh my god, no way. Goth

kid. How shocking.

I guess I bring my misery upon myself. I’m sorry I decided to care about

things no one else decided to care about. My bad.

Low and behold, when you hold back one that refused to be left behind, they

will rebel.

So I already didn’t like the uniform I was forced to wear. I wasn’t particularly

fond of the rules I was forced to follow. And as I got older, I was really

beginning to question the faith they were attempting to instill. It also didn’t

help that middle school in a pre-school to eighth grade Catholic school is

nothing like middle school. It’s like elementary school, but you are taking

care of elementary school kids half the time.

I can’t even be mad about that, though. I’m tellin’ you, there are benefits to

that shit. I am notorious for playing mommy and taking care of everyone. In

a way, I was raised to look after those who needed me to. I was taught to

help others when they needed it. I am okay with not being completely and

entirely selfish. The difference between me and Catholics really is God.

Another thing that got me during this time in the ever-treacherous middle

school was the world being in such bad shape. They always sent us home

with cardboard collection cards to hold quarters that were to be donated to

whichever organization’s names were on the back. When I was young, these

things made me happy. I felt like I was making the biggest difference in the

world. That is a feeling I recommend every child feeling, even if it isn’t

entirely true. I mean, that’s the thing, it totally is. You are here; there is a

reason for you. Simple as that. But as previously discussed, most people

never figure out their reason. They settle on, “I’m not good enough” and get

lost in the crowd of destruction. It’s unfortunate. We could all have a huge

impact on this planet if only we cared about it, or each other. Or anything.

Anything besides money, which seems to be the only thing that helps any.

Something I’ve never had all that much of and yet, so much more than so

many.

There were nights of my youth of sixth grade that I would cry myself to sleep

because I knew I was unable to change the world. All I wanted to do was an

impossible task. No matter how much change I collected, no matter how

many kids were supposedly fed, there was still nothing I could do about the

hate of the world. They say because God exists, the Devil, too. There is

Heaven awaiting those who follow God and Hell for those who do not. What

the Catholic Church did not exactly account for is the Heavens and Hells on

Earth. That’s the funniest thing about the thing. Heaven is in the sky and Hell

is beneath the Earth: As far away from each other as humanly possible.

At this fine time, I was beginning to think maybe I was a Satan-worshipper as

so many assumed I was. I didn’t look too far into it, because it seemed as

though I was not. Just disgruntled and confused. I still didn’t really sin. I

rebelled in personality and style, not juvenile delinquency. The more

discontent I became, the more Goth I appeared and the more morbid I felt. I

contemplated strangling myself in the shower, once, because I was so

fucking curious about this God deal. I wanted to know then and there what

was real and what was right. But I didn’t want anyone seeing me naked, so I

decided against it. Upon exiting the shower, the thought seemed to have

slipped my mind. At that time, anyway. I was more curious about Life than

Death, is what it came down to. I wanted Life to get better before I decided

to die.

It just took a long ass time for it to get better. By seventh grade, I didn’t

want to be atheist, but I had completely given up on Catholicism. For a

moment, I thought maybe I was Christian. That wasn’t cutting it. Then, with

the little information I knew, I wanted to study Buddhism. My mother told me

when I turned eighteen and moved out of her house I could change my

religion. It’s weird because I’m almost certain she’s not religious, but I don’t

really know. It’s not something we ever really talked about. Still don’t.

Politics as well. I suppose this is how I became so radical. I was getting so

sick of St. D that I almost went to Riley. I’m pretty glad I didn’t do it. I was

also starting to hang out with Ali Sun and her friends a lot more. She was sort

of my introduction to a world outside of Catholic school.

At this time, I was phasing out of Goth and into “Scene.” Oh, the Scene

years.

This was a time when Scene girls did not look like raccoons or only like bands

whose lead singers you can’t understand. They (or we) liked neon colours,

plastic barrettes, long strings of fake pearls, flats, and polka dots. But we’re

secretly grunge and we’ll always love plaid more. By the time eighth grade

hit, I was so done with having to pretend I was Catholic. I was now

considering myself Agnostic. Ali Sun confessed the feelings she’s had about

Nature and a connection with something she couldn’t understand. I had felt

this, but I always attributed this thing to being God. She never believed in

God. Suddenly, we found ourselves on a page we couldn’t read.

***

Middle school is a very important time of self-discovery. Something made me

decide to spell my name with a “y”. It makes sense; I never stop asking,

“Why?” Why not have a “y” in my name? I began to really think about who I

was, what I believed, and what I liked. It’s unfortunate that children seem to

be the cruelest in middle school. Some grow up and grow out of it, some

jump deeper into it once they get to high school.

It’s sad that there is no sense of unity at this time. This is when cliques begin

to form. This is when kids start to feel the pain of being out-casted. This is a

time when we physically begin to change and the change is the most drastic

of our young lives because we’ve never had to deal with any “real” issues

before then. Well, if you are granted the precious gift of a childhood, anyway

—as I was fortunate enough to have. For some reason, when we hate

ourselves, we hate everyone else. I am a prime example of this statement. I

would get so sad about people thinking I was weird, or being fat and

generally not pretty. I hated how different I felt all the time because people

couldn’t accept me for who I was—that Gothic Catholic. I was sad about

some of the stupidest shit. I hated myself for caring. Everyone was giving

their fucks and I had no fucks to give but all I could care about was why

people were giving a fuck. It left me in such heavy boots. I wanted to change

the world. There was no way my self-conscious self was going to do that. I

couldn’t rationalize it so well, then… It just pissed me the fuck off because I

couldn’t figure out why I was caring about all the things they never gave

fucks about.

I have always had a temper, but it wasn’t until middle school that I felt

angry. We all became less cute and far more unattractive, so my personality

was as unattractive as I was. I didn’t care and I have never had a fuck to

give. The only reason a person doubts, their self is if the world around them

does it first. And again, everyone hates themselves in middle school, so all

this doubt is flying around the classrooms of middle school halls. It makes for

so much hate. I felt every last drop of hate these kids had. For whatever

reason, it seemed like they really didn’t like me. Maybe everyone feels that

way in middle school. And that’s why they are mostly mean or whatever.

Or would that make too much sense?

Maybe no matter what you do, people will be people. Perhaps there isn’t

anything we can do to prevent kids from being kids.

But wait.

Maybe there is something we can do.

Could we love?

People think it’s a really silly idea. For some reason or another, it’s an

absolutely ridiculous to believe in the simple things such as love. Ideas like

peace and unity have evolved to be mocked by popular society because we

thrive on fear and fighting. The compassionate ways of the alternative

“hippie” counter-culture is so widely disrespected, even though it exists to

show respect. It’s almost ironic that something with such pure intentions can

be so misconstrued. I suppose the mushroom cloud of drug smoke above it

gives society the bad taste.

But really, what do you think about that? What is actually so wrong with not

wanting to be as wasteful as we Americans tend to be? What’s wrong with

wanting to take care of your insides and outsides? What is so wrong with

wanting to share good health and good vibes with the people around you?

Why are people so against a movement about people? That doesn’t make

any sense to me. Because some of them take acid? The thing is, I didn’t

know shit about anything in middle school. I listened to shitty music and

shopped at Hot Topic and cried all the time or whatever. But even then I

wanted the same things I want now. I wanted to see the starving bellies full; I

wanted to see homeless sheltered. I wanted to see wars end and hate

disintegrate. I’m sorry my beliefs and dreams evolved my personality and

style. It doesn’t hurt that I was born with more swag than anyone in America.

LOL… LY.

Middle school was a time I realized how much I appreciate music. I loved

shitty pop punk bands and other crap like that and I don’t really listen to any

of it anymore, but it was my life at the time, and music has remained my life

since.

When you spend a lot of time alone, music often becomes important to you

because you can feel as though you are maybe not so alone. I have always

liked the music I could most relate to. When I was very young, I liked the

songs on the radio because I didn’t have much going on, but I liked music. I

like the Schoolhouse Rock Rocks songs because they were more fun than

school, and I liked In Your Eyes a lot because I guess my dad would play it

and I just loved it. It wasn’t until middle school that I developed my own

taste for music, as opposed to listening to whatever was played on the radio

stations my sister would listen to.

Granted, my taste was what the Goth and Emo kids liked because we could

all relate to one another… I guess… I was sad about not being pretty and in

love or whatever because we were all heartbroken, in a way, but about

nothing. I was really into the idea of overthrowing authority, but never had

the balls to cast a stone. That pretty much defines pop punk, right? Wishing

you were punk enough to do anything about your angst but being too

concerned with pop culture and acceptance to do it?

I still love The Format. I still love Brand New. I still love Something Corporate.

I still love Motion City Soundtrack. I still love Flogging Molly. Pretty much

everything else I listened to either sucked or didn’t mature as much as I

have. It’s almost like, if I could relate to your music in middle school, you

probably need to grow up or I’m not going to continue to listen to your

music. Lyrics are very important to me. And performance is everything. I

thought Avril was pretty cool until I saw her shit on the All That stage. It

made me question everything I’d heard.

My favourite band in middle school was easily Maryz Eyez. You’ve probably

never heard of them, but they were cool as fuck. I saw them for the first time

at the Suburbia Recreational Center, a former high school. My siblings and

cousins all became obsessed with me because they were such cool dudes

and because they were from K-zoo, we went to all of their shows that were

within an hour of us. And because none of us drove, really, we had a

chaperone at every single bar show we went to, just about. Hilarious, really,

but they were really cool about having young and obsessive teeny-boppin’

fans. They played in my backyard for my sister’s sweet sixteen. The best

part about that was some little girl a few blocks over hearing them and

telling her mom she heard them and her mom thinking she was crazy. I bet it

made her little world to be in my backyard with them! They go by

Trenchtown now and they have a song in a video game. Fuck yeah, boys.

Middle school was also full of sports for me. Varsity CYO, what up! I enjoyed

playing sports. I didn’t enjoy any of the bitches I played with or against. I

would get angrier at the cattiness of the girls on the field or the sheer

stupidity of the inability for my teammates to take direction or work as a

team than I did at the sport itself that was going on. By the time I was in

eighth grade, I dropped basketball and haven’t been on a team since.

I think this was a time I started to realize how much I didn’t like everyone

else. I didn’t really know why. To be fair, I didn’t really like myself, either. I

think other people didn’t like me because I didn’t like myself and I didn’t like

myself because I didn’t know who I was. I’m so glad I went to public school,

or I would have never figured it out. I’m so glad I took acid, or I would have

never figured anything out.

“Operator? Can you help me?”

THE DISCOVERY OF UNIVERSAL CONSCIOUSNESS

“The Universe will have its way”

Included are quotes of things people said about me for a Creative Writing project

my junior year to give you other opinions about Lauryn because I think they’re on-

point and hilarious.

It always starts with acid, doesn’t it?

I suppose it didn’t really start with acid. Something did, but not high school.

After putting up a fit and a half for three years, I successfully avoided All-Girl

Catholic High School and became a Spartan at Parliament High School: Home

of the Cockiest Suburbia Football Team and Most Infamous Suburbia Whores.

I imagine my switch from St. D to Parliament was a similar feeling to being a

traveler in another country: Culture Shock. School Culture Shock. It was

pretty nerve-racking. I dumped my eighth grade boyfriend and chopped all

my hair off about a month before my first day. If I really didn’t want people

to think I was a lesbian, I guess I shouldn’t have made these decisions. Or

perhaps if I really was a lesbian, I would have gone to the All-Girl school.

Either way, all 2,000+ of them believed it right off the bat.

It wasn’t my intention to make everyone think I was a lesbian, but I didn’t

really care that they did. I was okay with the idea. They weren’t. But I didn’t

give a single fuck to Parliament. I didn’t come with one and I wasn’t looking

for one. I was going from weak Goth to weak Scene to being over stupid fads

and not really knowing what I liked but I have always loved plaid and every

colour of the fucking rainbow. So that must make me a lesbian. OI Vey. It

was a long four years of my life, but not nearly as long as the two years that

followed.

“Lauren is a beautiful swan smothered in plaid and denim. Maybe one day she will

allow herself to breathe.” Mad Scientist

I kept quite my freshman year. I rode the bus every day. I sat in the front.

There was this punk kid senior that sat in the front, too, and it was always a

comfort to know I wasn’t the only one that didn’t care about the bullshit of

the back of the bus being cooler than the front. Congratulations, you are as

far away from authority as possible within this Twinkie. Fuck up all the shit in

the ten minutes you have to fuck shit up in a vehicle that isn’t yours. Oh, you

rebels.

There was some girl that looked like the bad ass inside me. She always had

the coolest fucking shoes, but I think they may have been the coolest part

about her. But she talked to me, so I can’t hate, because most people didn’t

talk to me. The other kids on my bus stop just reminded me that I was a

“dyke” every time I got off the bus. Cool, bro. See you in the morning.

“Lauren is a cynical bitch.” Gorgeous Emo Girlfriend

My first week of high school, I witnessed some hard bullying and it wigged

me the fuck out. It gave me ultra heavy boots. This stupid bitch and her

friends grouped around this really special boy who was nothing but nice to

everyone and this bitch mocked him, kicked him, and laughed in his face. I

didn’t do anything about it and I hated myself for not standing up for him,

you know I really kick myself for that. I didn’t have any friends and I was

more concerned about what people thought of me than doing the right thing

and standing up for someone who shouldn’t have been down in the first

place. I was scared to speak up because I didn’t know who was listening. It’s

like I was given the fucks I could have swore I got rid of.

You know how I know that boy was special? Because my senior year, I had a

class with him. I got to know this boy and he was special because he was the

sweetest boy. He never had it in him to do a thing wrong to anyone and to

me, that’s more special that everyone. I wish I was as pure and good as this

boy, who truly wanted to be friends with anyone. I have too much hate in me

to be as good of a person as he was and that it what makes him special. I

became his friend and this time, when I saw someone pick on him, I stood up

for him. Some smart ass at the table laughed at something he did, so I made

the smart ass feel like a dumb ass. I just wish I would have done it three

years sooner.

It’s very sad that high school can have this sort of effect on people. I suppose

we all react differently to everything.

I couldn’t open my locker because I had never had one before, and I didn’t

really know how to. I lugged six books and my personal notebook (because I

always have paper for thought scratching) around in my backpack for most

of the first semester. I was the kid with the backpack. We had hooks at St. D.

I’m not used to your customs and freedoms!

I didn’t really care to know anyone I saw, but I would respond to just about

anyone that talked to me. That’s how I became friends with a girl that

wanted me to join spirit club and a girl obsessed with Twilight (though this

was long before the undeserving craze—props). They’re always nice girls,

you know? Over time, I made casual friends with a variety of people. In

reality, as pure as their intentions may have been, they were other students

that made life at Parliament more bearable. We never hung out, we weren’t

that close, and none of them truly liked me all that much. Or, if they did,

they didn’t know me well enough not to. We weren’t really friends because

that’s how high school is. Brought together to be scattered apart.

There are some people I still talk to that I met in high school. Of everyone,

my best friend is the only one I talk to on a regular basis. I’m okay with that.

I still keep in fading touch with a select few others, but for the most part, I

won’t see most of them until I get to Hell. I don’t care, like, at all. I think it’s

so funny how people miss high school so much. Maybe if you didn’t enjoy the

first time, you wouldn’t want to be doing it again. Or, perhaps, if you had

anything to look forward to in life, you wouldn’t wish your life was still high

school. However, most people love high school. They over-glorify the bullshit

that is over-glorified bullshit and for some reason, people are really obsessed

with this stuff. I don’t get it, man. I guess I never cared about the things kids

care about in high school, so how they still care about it is beyond me.

I never cared about what I wore and definitely didn’t care about what anyone

else was wearing. I let people write all over my jeans—yeah, I used to wear

jeans. Weird as fuck—because I didn’t care what my clothes looked like.

What is so wrong with added personality? Does it take away class? Who

needs class when you’re in class? Sitting in a chair attached to a surface…

Such uncomfortable and yet oddly comforting desks we had to sleep on or

write on or eat on or, oh. Learn on.

[I just hate how much people care about what other people look like. It seems like

such an impractical thing to judge somebody on. I’m not in it for your body, girl.

I’m in it for your brain. But that soul better come a little corrupted or you won’t

be able to handle this mind fuck.]

I didn’t have real friends so I definitely didn’t have a group I belonged to,

which is why I never cared for the organization and formation of cliques. It all

seems so stupid to me. And even though there were a variety of people at

hand, I still didn’t really like any of them. I have never been one to judge you

on the way you dress or even the way you act because sometimes, well, I

always look very strange to people so I have absolutely no hate to strange

people. I love it, can’t get enough. I know I am the most obnoxious kid on the

playground some days and other days I should be left in the dark and creepy

corner I’m in. I understand that each day is a new one and we cannot

promise anything of ourselves or anyone else. I am okay with you the way

you are so long as it is you that you are.

I do not like to judge, but I will be the first to tell you that I am very critical.

You can leave God to be your judge, but how do you even know what He

wants if you don’t know the guy?

I am drawn to people not by what they look like or how they act like, but

their views and beliefs and whether or not theirs either: coincide with mine,

or are logical enough to be plausible. I think a lot. I think so much I think it is

a problem, sometimes. Always have. I like other brains. I’ll talk to just about

anyone, unless they’re really stupid and it’s totally unbearable. (Biiiiitch.) I

thoroughly enjoy those who can hold a conversation at my pace, though,

which is a lot faster of a pace than your typical conversation. The Mad

Scientist and the Coolest Conservative happen to be two dudes that run with

me better than anyone else, and that’s why I hope they will always be my

good friends. I’ve noticed over time it is very rare a girl can keep up. In fact,

they don’t usually get past the first six months of conversation. It’s okay. I

have my best friend.

This distance between me and fellow students shortened the one between

me and my teachers. I imagine kids in my classes would refer to me as

teacher’s pet behind my back. I’m sorry I think the adult in the room is cooler

than all you snobs in the seats. I didn’t kiss ass; I just know how to respect

elders. I wasn’t tight with all my teachers, either. Only the ones I shared a

common bond with. More often than not, that bond was Peter Gabriel. It was

interesting on both ends because there weren’t any other high schoolers that

liked Peter Gabriel, so it was fascinating for the teacher to meet one that did

(“ha ha, weird kid”) but it was great for me to meet any other human being

that liked Peter Gabriel (“fucking coolest teacher ever…”).

And sometime in History class, I met my partner. My REALUV of all loves. It

was kind of love at first sight without the lust and simply admiration—mind

you, the feeling goes unchanged. He has done some off-the-wall things and

held his head high through every last second of them. That, to me, is what I

consider fucking fabulous. He hates when I tell him this, but he’s absolutely

gorgeous. And his mind is a cryptic, broken maze that some people can’t get

through but I find so much fun. I love when he feels like himself because I

feel like he’s the Mad Hatter.

I wore my watermelon Format shirt and he showed me his ants. If it weren’t

for him, my teachers, and my art class, I probably would have given up. If

not on Life altogether, most certainly Spartan City. LOL those kids suck,

dude. LY.

The teachers weren’t exactly perfect; there were just enough of them that

were more than good enough to compensate for those who lacked…

everything… I didn’t learn anything about Geometry. The assholes of

Parliament High School tortured him so much I had to sleep through it. I got

to Algebra 2 and felt like a real dumbass because I couldn’t reference that

part of my life. I didn’t care that much, though, because my Algebra 2

teachers were bitches, anyway. You shouldn’t let a science teacher teach art,

either. By the time I was a senior, they stopped letting her. Art is emotional,

science is mathematical. Radical and almost polar opposite. Or art stands

between religion and science. I don’t know, but you can’t teach someone to

be an artist and you can’t drill techniques into someone to make them one.

You are or you aren’t.

I guess I’m an artist.

People have always thought that about me, but I never really thought of

myself as one. After having an art class every year and getting to high school

to see I wasn’t as good as most of the “art kids” at Parliament, I figured I

only liked to paint because I was taught to. So I gave up on it. After failing on

a canvas a few times, I stopped painting. In reality, I was trying too hard to

be good at it because the best art is made without thought and solely

feeling. I wasn’t able to use the mechanics that were taught to me over time,

so I thought I was no good. I thought I was like everyone else because not

everyone is an artist, but everyone takes art classes.

My mom and the counselors at Parliament really pushed for me to be in the

Art Club. At this time, I wasn’t picking up brushes unless I was being told to. I

had little interest in pretending I thought I was any good at painting

anymore, even if everyone had always told me so. I wasn’t feelin’ it. Why

add the unnecessary pressure of competitive feelings at a time I felt like a

loser? I was much more into writing, and much more concerned with being in

Accelerated English. And even though my Catholic school education actually

put me at an advantage, I was unable to get it. They couldn’t compare my

smarts on books to their kids’ smarts on books, so they assumed I had to

relearn the English language as they do in English 9. I guess I can say I’ve

read To Kill A Mocking Bird, and I guess that’s one of those books everyone

should read.

It’s funny that fourth hour was my favourite class because lunch was my

least favourite part of the day.

There are two cafeterias in Parliament: The North Cafeteria and the South

Cafeteria. The North Cafeteria consisted of long, rectangular tables for the

yuppies, jocks, rich kids, and wish-they-were-rich-jocks kids. The South was a

bunch of small round tables for the rest of us. I’d sit at any random table

each day with any random kids who didn’t eat with many other people.

Sometimes, I was alone. It didn’t bother me that much. I could eat and write

and stuff and it was okay. Most of the time, I was lucky enough to have a

shining star to sit with; but of course, I didn’t know how lucky I was until I

was three years too late.

Stars burn forever in my memory.

I hated lunch so much because I still hated high school and I still didn’t know

anyone I liked, really. There was no one that truly interested me except for

my future art punk boyfriend and I never saw him. The worst part about

lunch wasn’t even not having anyone to sit with. That didn’t really bother

me. It never bothered me to be alone before, not like it does now. What

really bummed me out some heavy boots was when kids would take chairs

from my table. Sometimes, this would be the first person to talk to me that

day and all they’d be saying was,

“Hey, can I have this?”

And I wouldn’t say,

“Well, shit. Does it look like I’m expecting a full lunch? Fucking take it.

Fucking take three. I don’t give a fuck because no one wants to take me.”

I always said yes and write down how I really felt.

One time, a counselor made me eat lunch with a girl in my English class. It

was one of the more awkward experiences of that year. She showed me a

picture of the girl that felt bad enough for me to make me feel like I had

friends but I didn’t recognize her. She was in the class I was pulled out of to

be told I was going to eat lunch with her, and I still didn’t recognize her. I

wanted no part of this, but I’ve never been good at saying no about

anything. The only person I had any interest in being friends with was the

long-haired boy across the room.

So I became a Heater Kid only it’s a bench at Parliament.

You may think you don’t know what a heater kid is, but you do. Or you did in

high school, at the very least. I refer to them as such because in the Hills,

they collected by the heater on the wall during lunch. At Parliament, we

found us a bench. Fuck both yo cafeterias. I’ll be in the hallway with the

sideshow freaks, bitches!

This was the first time I had enjoyed lunch and high school in general. I felt

like I finally found a place I could belong and that was with all the other

people that didn’t belong. It felt so good to be surrounded by kids who didn’t

give a fuck like me. This was when I became friends with Machete, the

werewolf. As it turns out, we went to the same preschool. He’s pretty sure

he’s the kid that pushed me off the world. He felt really bad about it. I lied to

him about being Jewish, so when I made it my New Year’s Resolution to stop

lying, I told him. It devastated him because I was the only Jew he knew and

he liked to have a representative of all demographics. We called it even after

that.

That was one of the only resolutions I’ve ever stuck to. And this one of not

speaking to you.

I lied a lot when I was in high school. Nobody knew who I was, so I could be

anything. I never lied about anything major, just stuff like being Jewish or

Canadian or a lesbian. I had fun. Come on, I was miserable and it was

entertaining to know something someone didn’t know, even if it was just

about myself. Well, I love who I am now and I have no reason to lie. Unless

it’s my family or authority, I’m not gonna lie to you. Isn’t that how we got

here?

The rest of my days were as dreary as ever. It seemed as though nothing got

better. I already hated high school and people were making me hate it more

and more every day. I’m so grateful for my cousin. I called her every day

after school and we’d talk on our house phones for hours. This is how we

became vegetarians. This is how we bitched to be calm. This is how we

managed to survive being in two different high schools. We would write

notes to each other while we were in school and give them to one another on

the weekends when we’d hang out. Or sometimes, we’d go a couple weeks

and hand over some weird shit on paper. In addition to the notes I wrote my

casual girlfriends at school and my cousin with her friends, I also wrote to no

one or myself or unknowingly the Universe in a composition notebook to

really get all my frustration out of me.

I’m so happy I gave up on painting and switched to writing. I needed to write

so much more than I needed to paint. A picture is worth a thousand words

but alas, says nothing. I was getting backed up with my own thoughts,

surrounded by thousands of ears that did not wish to hear them. If it weren’t

for these exchanges of letters or my goddamn notebook, there is no way I

would have made it through high school. In fact, I think if I would have been

a painter, I probably would have killed myself. It would have been too quiet

for the noise inside my head.

During high school, I had wanted to go to Kool High in the Hills. In retrospect,

I’m glad no one allowed me to do that. My punk love taught me enough

about my peers and art to make surviving Parliament a possibility. If it

weren’t for him taking me under his wing and being real with my naïve and

curious young mind, I would have probably just overdosed by the end of high

school. And I can’t really imagine what my taste in music would be, or what I

would have evolved into. He fed the middle school punk inside me and

without him, I’d be a total fuckin’ hippie.

I had a terrible reputation in Kool, anyway. But I guess that wasn’t until my

next year…

Sophomore year was by no means good, but it was a tremendous

improvement from the year before. I guess when you are no longer the

bottom of the caste system, you become more inclined to doing and being

more than you were before. I guess. Sophomores are just as dumb as

freshman—if not dumber. For whatever reason, this fifteen / sixteen-year-old

crowd come equipped with a huge ego. They make it painfully obvious that

they are no longer freshmen because it’s the greatest shit in the world to not

be the shit under a shoe and that’s all freshmen are. I actually like

sophomores less than I like freshman. High school doesn’t quite matter until

junior year if not senior year. I mean… High school doesn’t really matter at

all. It’s just high school.

Maybe I’m just bitter. I finally got involved in extracurricular activity. I never

tried too hard to figure out what I wanted, but I found myself on stage crew

because of my best friend. I also joined Students Environmentally Active

because my fellow butch bitches on crew, though we weren’t that butch

then. I was happy to be doing things that interested me, such as being a part

of a production or pretending like I could save the planet by recycling paper,

picking plastic bottles out of trash cans, and not showering as often as other

people. Woo. Either way, I was happy to be a part of something and my

parents and counselors were happy that I was a part of anything. Even if I

was a part of groups of the uncoolest kids or whatever and it lead to me

having some dirty hair and the worst locker ever.

“Lauren’s hair could supply enough polish to make your car shine.” My First

Heartbreaker

By winter I hated Christmas more than Parliaments and sported a plethora of

grandparents’ sweaters found from a very lost decade of the 80s but then

again—when aren’t we lost?

It was also the time I found the courage to start dabbling in the pleasures

frowned upon by our dear little society. It was during one-acts of my

sophomore year that I smoked pot for the first time. It’s really hilarious to me

that the first time and place I smoked weed was at Parliament after hours.

The punk took me out to the ravine we’d go to smoke cigarettes and he told

me he was going to… “Smoke smoke.”

We had no set changed for one-acts, so I smoked half of a joint with him and

a group of delinquents that happened to have been out there. I’m pretty sure

one of those said delinquents went on to kill an innocent human being

drinking and driving... I went inside. The first person I saw was my chemistry

teacher. That was probably the best part about the whole thing. I laughed at

the things that weren’t all that funny during the play and almost fell asleep.

Unfortunately for everyone I know, I enjoyed being stoned. I formed a habit

of smoking once a month for a few months. Then it became twice a month…

Once a week…

It’s interesting to discover a network of people through Mary Jane. It brought

me closer to people I was social with in class but didn’t hang out with outside

of school. The best example is ma nigga MacNCheeze. I had English with

him. He was always cool with me even though I really wasn’t cool. We never

hung out because I was some good kid, but when he found out I was on his

level, we chilled. We weren’t friends until after high school and I don’t think I

have a bigger supporter of my rap career. He’s always been there. One of

those dudes, you know?!

I hung out with my cousins and her girlfriends, which is how I came to realize

that I couldn’t be a girl even when I tried. I went to parties and drove around

with them, giggling and singing and being Disney princesses. Something

about it really warmed my female heart, but it wasn’t something I could do

forever. I’d get drunk and be an idiot and it wasn’t some life I’d choose to

live. Plus, none of them smoked weed—though I wasn’t a pothead until junior

year. That’s when my life and I really began coming together.

The Mad Hatter and I were in the same place but in different space. We had

both been smoking pot occasionally and really quite enjoyed it but didn’t

really know anyone that was smokin’ it. We talked about the discussion of

drugs in health class. We decided mushrooms would be cool, too, but we

didn’t know how to get them or anything. It’s a good thing, because we

weren’t ready for them. As for Mary Jane: She was just the girl we needed.

He knew more people than I did. We were still very innocent but we knew we

were destined for catastrophe with smiles on our faces. He taught me how to

pull off not giving a fuck. I didn’t have fucks to give, but I wore it with anger.

He showed me how to not give a fuck and smile.

We. Just want to have. Fun.

We decided our goal of the summer before our junior year would have to be

Lollapalooza. I couldn’t even explain how significant this event was to my

life, but here I am about to try and explain it, anyway.

LOLLAPALOOZA ’08: THE FIRST BIG KID FESTIVAL

Somehow, my partner and I ended up at his kitchen table with our mothers the

night before day one getting permission to go to this festival. I never in my naïve

dreams thought this was going to happen. I didn’t think my parents would ever let

me get on a plane alone with someone viewed as more irresponsible than I;

especially not when fleeing to a music festival they nor I knew much about. But

somehow, we talked them into it. I feel like we didn’t even put in that much effort.

We didn’t put much effort into anything. Ever. That’s what made our whirlwind so

much fun. This trip was no exception.

We made a successful forty-five-minute flight to Chicago a plane of flying colours. It

was my third time—first by air. I drove with my aunt and cousins once. That was

fun. SEA took a train to the Green Festival there. Also fun. But this was easily the

best one.

My partner’s mother and sister were to meet us there on a flight scheduled later

that day. We left the airport in a cab and the driver was some chill mother fucker

with a sick accent. We talked music and he and my partner were on the same page

about some electronic but all I was caring about was seeing Perry Farrell. They got

to talking about night clubs because he was very curious about this scene, or even

more so the rave scene rather than simply the club scene. I just wanted to see Perry

Farrell. He recommended we try some such cool night club somewhere or other

right outside the city and I didn’t care because I was gonna see Perry Farrell. We got

to the hotel and checked our bags because we couldn’t get in the room until his

mother arrived. Why she would have rather had the two of us roaming the streets of

Chicago to being in a hotel room is beyond me…

We walked to Central Park where Lollapalooza was already happening. Before we

could even get to a line, we were delivered the darkest of clouds over our sunniest

day: It was sold out.

We hadn’t thought about this at all. I was told it was the first time it had ever been

sold out. We hadn’t planned for this. It may have once been a thought that we

didn’t pay much attention to it because we figured it wouldn’t happen that way but

oh, it most certainly did happen that way. Our hopes and dreams were stomped on

and killed in that very moment. We, like many others, begged and pleaded for

wristbands but we, like many others, were very unsuccessful. I got to talking to this

one dude, ma fuckin’ dude, and he saved our weekend. He was only concerned

about seeing Radiohead that night, so he was looking for a ticket and not a

wristband. He knew of some place that had no tickets, but five or six wristbands—

essentially the last five or six wristbands.

I called my partner over to us in excitement and he recited the information he gave

to me to my partner. I told him to call his mom, tell her it was sold out, have her call

this place, and buy the wristbands with her credit card so we could assure them as

our own by the time we got there. Instead, he came up with his own plan:

“I’m just gonna go…”

So he left. I stayed outside of Central Park with the heaviest boots I’d ever wore, all

sorts of panic about being stranded in Chicago in my head with a family picnicking

and a dude taking pictures of us. The defeat was defeating me. My partner was

going back to the hotel to get cash out of our bags, but I had our checked-bags slip.

I tried to call him, but my piece of shit at the time wouldn’t make phone calls. In my

world, we were totally fucked.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but it felt like a fucking eternity. After

sitting around being unable to do anything, I finally saw my partner. In our thrift

store rave gear, it was hard to miss each other. I began walking in his direction. He

was running and he had the most horrible look on his face, so I started running with

a horrible look on my face. It was one of the most dramatic moments of my life. As

we got closer, I noticed his arms were extended forward.

“Put this on.”

In his hand and on his wrist were two of the last wristbands for Lollapalooza. In one

swift motion, he slipped it on my wrist and we threw ourselves into each other’s

arms. He got to the hotel and realized he had to do exactly as I told him, so he did,

and there we were with wristbands and ready to… Wait in line. Oh, well. Beats

waiting out of line! It was such a beautiful thing. We thought the best day of our

lives was going to turn into the worst day of our lives but it actually became better

than the best day because it didn’t go as planned. That’s life, right? Never what you

expect but more than you could ask for in either positive or negative lights. I fell in

love with Lollapalooza because I felt loved by “the spirit of the festival.” Having long

abandoned God and been uncertain of atheism, I took very kindly to said spirit. I

believed it more than anything anyone had yet to tell me.

I couldn’t tell you most the details of the rest of the weekend. We took adderall

everyday and smoked as much weed as possible. I saw so many great bands; I wish

I could remember all of them. I didn’t many full sets, so I cheated most of them,

anyway. There were too many people and not enough time or maybe just too many

stages with overlapping sets. I did what I had to do. We were together often, but

there were times we had to part ways because of our differed taste. I personally

think it is more fun to be with people you love, but a festival is the one place I am

more than okay being completely and totally alone. It was the best thing that had

happened to me that far and the furthest I’d been from home alone, too. I looked

Nathan Maxwell in the face and we exchanged “I love you”s. That was quite a

highlight. But I’ll tell ya, the best part of the whole thing was ma main man Perry.

“Gotta joint? Light it up!”

It was so magical. It was the first time, I’m nearly positive a show had ever been

magical to me. It was all so simple, too. It was the smallest stage at Lolla—Perry’s

stage. It was pretty much a tent full of Jane’s Addiction fans and Perry Farrell came

out and played Satellite Party songs. I didn’t even care because I was happy to be

front and center for his performance and I would have listened to him play anything

and I would have enjoyed it. It was really great, though, that his final encore was

Jane Says. Of the thousands of people there, we few were the only ones. It was

some energy I had never felt, I think. Perry’s animal was directly in my face. The

crowd swayed me and everyone reached for him and I caught him:

“Perry!”

“I know!”

Did he? Maybe. Did I think he did? Hell yeah. Do I still? Well, yeah, I hope so.

I saw a ton of other great shows, too. I saw parts of sets of bands I sort of liked at

the time that I wish I could witness now, only in their entirety. Dude, I got to see

Danny Masterson deejay. He looked just like Hyde. I wish I would have stuck

around! Even though watching them perform “Misunderstood” nearly brought me to

tears, my biggest regret is Wilco. I didn’t know my brother would grow up to obsess

over Jeff Tweedy! And Jeff Magnum, but we get to see him soon. Anyway, it was

awesome. It was so awesome. Everyone was so fucking happy and I was the

happiest kid there and I was never around happy people nor had I ever been happy.

I don’t think I even danced. I just soaked myself in Lollapalooza. I absorbed to store

everything there was to take from Chicago that weekend. I observed every moment

of ultimate peace and freedom that I wanted to live.

Lolly had come back.

As mentioned before, as I could mention dozens more times: Phenomenal weekend.

However, the first and last days were definitely the most remarkable. When I say

last day, I actually mean the Monday after. We were terribly sad to have had to

leave the festival Sunday night. We sang a good-bye song and everything. We went

back to the hotel and watched Baby Mama high as fuck on festival, football kush,

and addies. That shit was fuckin’ hilarious, but we still couldn’t sleep.

As half the room slept and the other half attempted to dream, there was kind of a

pissident… There was no way in Hell we were sleeping after that. Our laughter got

us kicked out of our room.

We were left to wander the streets of Chicago at the best time for us to be let lose

in the world: Six a.m. Nothing very bad ever happens at six a.m. aside from school

shootings and we weren’t in a high school so we were pretty safe to wander

Chicago. We didn’t really know what to do in Chicago the day after a festival, so we

just walked ourselves back to the festival. We stood in Central Park and watch them

tear down what was left of the stages, long been destroyed. It was sad and oh, so

bittersweet. We truly were in love. I went to the stage where Perry was, and on the

floor I found a four. I once dreamt that we played Euchre, so it was a big deal to me.

At that time, I could barely play Euchre. Not to mention, there are no fours in

Euchre. But I still found a card. Closer, but not quite there.

I’ll be honest, my partner raided the Flaming Lips tent. Sorry, Wayne. I was hooked

before I had the chance. We were curious about the Flaming Lips but knew nothing.

We just wanted to know more. I encouraged him to break into the tent because I

was so curious about the movie I didn’t watch but wished I did. I still have a piece of

cardboard from it hanging on my wall. I wish I would have seen it, but I don’t think I

was meant to at the time. And meow I seem to have run out of time to do things

like watch movies.

We made peace with all good things having an end and finally dragged ourselves

back to the hotel to get a little sleep before flying home. We couldn’t stop giggling

the entire shuttle ride to the airport. We embarrassed his mother terribly in front of

complete strangers we’d never see again. Kept laughing. I almost didn’t get to

leave Chicago because they assumed my lack of identification meant that I was a

terrorist. Cool, guys. My flight leaves in fifteen minutes, can I go? Oh, you wanna

search my bag? Probably smells like B.O. and pot. Bye.

Upon returning from Lollapalooza, I got my first job at a bakery my best

friend worked at. Having a job was pretty awesome. Having money was

pretty awesome. Going back to school was even pretty awesome. Junior year

was awesome. The Mad Hatter and I remained attached at the hip and had

the time of our lives every day, simply because we could. We were smoking

a lot of pot, to be frank. There was nothing else to do. Each day was pretty

routine. After school, I would either go to work or get high. After work, we’d

get high and maybe go to a 24-hour diner, Ram, because we could smoke

cigarettes there, or we cruised around listening to music most people didn’t

care for while getting high. If I didn’t work, there was no telling what sorts of

things we got into. We never did anything all too terrible. We mostly smoked

weed.

I think the reason we started smoking so much weed at this time was

1. It’s Parliament High. You read the Bible or smoke pot.

2. Smoking is a great ice breaker / friend maker (and not because it

makes you look cool!)

3. We already didn’t care about high school, and Lollapalooza reassured

us that it didn’t matter.

Maybe all high schools are like this, but a lot of people did a lot of drugs at

high school. I’ve compared life at Parliament to the other Suburban high

schools and from what it sounds like, at least in this city, it was definitely far

passed the gateways the others seemed to be at. Marlboro kids were know

to get high, Winston kids were known to get drunk, but Parliament kids we

known to get straight fucked up. I don’t mean fucked up. I mean

FUUUUUCKED UUUUUP.

We were gettin’ fatty bags of some mid-grade regs at a really good price but

our weed man sort of disappeared to heroin. It was not uncommon, unusual,

or unexpected. They had their own lunch table. I had experimented with

prescription pills a little bit the year before and my experimentation

continued throughout this one, too. I was curious about hallucinogens

mostly, but we didn’t know how to obtain them. This curiosity was not

restricted solely to hallucinogens. After trying mild uppers and downers, I

was curious about the stronger, harder ones, too. I didn’t acquire much of

anything but more and more prescriptions.

Honestly, I’d rather smoke pot, anyway. I didn’t know that at the time. When

high school was happening, I wanted whatever drugs I could get or whatever.

But seriously, people. You would much rather have your kids smoking the

goddamn reefer you’re always bitchin’ about than the mysterious and

dangerous drugs I would go on to experiment with. Jesus, calm the fuck

down about the fucking pot already. Way to get smart and make some

money off of the idea, states Colorado and Washington. I sincerely hope you

stack stacks on stacks on stacks.

You’re fucking pissed about the economy being complete shit and the one

thing that could actually fix it is your biggest enemy that is trying to be your

friend. You really wanna know how to fix things? Smoke more weed; sell

more weed. More weed is more money, more jobs, and more freedom. It’s

hard not to get along with a room full of the chill kinda smokes. You like

capitalism? Capitalize what we love most, then, and we may love you, too. Or

maybe we wouldn’t be so fucking fascinated with it. Either way, it’s a win-win

for both parties.

Fuck you for choosing a wasteful war against it! Just trying to make peace,

man… Fuck you.

And let’s be real, the pot smokers are the least shady of the drug users. Your

typical pothead is not a fiend for it. They aren’t usually psycho if they don’t

have it. Anything could happen to anyone at any time, but your devious drug

scams will usually involve harder drugs that pot. I’d rather be friends with

stoners that heroin addicts or coke whores or pill poppers or what have you.

Wouldn’t you?

There’s an automatic trust you put in your fellow law breakers that you can’t

exactly put in someone who does not partake. If you break the law, you are

obviously going to feel safer around people who also break the law,

especially if you break the same laws. This is instinctual trust that can make

a good friendship even better. It’s not because you look cool, it’s because

you can relate. You get it. You know what it’s like. You know what’s up. So I

say, “What’s up?”

That was the thing about it, too. I was finally starting to really see what was

up. Lollapalooza showed me, “Yes, Lauren. Something is up. And you’re

gonna know what it is.” It was so cool because the Mad Hatter and I went

back to Parliament giving less of a fuck because we now knew something

was up; didn’t know what it was, but we knew this wasn’t it. So we didn’t

care. We did not give one single damn about what would happen in high

school. For the first two years of bullshit high school I was depressed about

my grades, about my peers, about my parents, about the world. I wasn’t

quite as depressed about all that shit anymore because I finally witnessed

what was up. Not lived, just witnessed. I imagine we were two of few kids

that had gone to a festival other than DEMF. It was such a good feeling to

truly stop caring upon the discovery that it wasn’t solely me being weird.

High school really doesn’t matter.

“Lauren is weird and I envy her for her individuality. She would love my boyfriend’s

dad, he’s a hippie.” Some girl I went to high school with; she would later go on to

hate me

It could have mattered, but it’s done all wrong. High school students are too

big of assholes for it to actually work the way it was meant to. Education is a

fantastic idea. Social classing and casting? Not so much.

There are two different kinds of education students can obtain from high

school. There is the obvious education of books (knowledge) and there is the

education of streets (intelligence). I think I got a fair balance of the two. High

school is intended to expand on the ideas briefly taught to us in elementary

and middle school whilst preparing us for college and “the real world”. There

is nothing about the education system that legitimately prepares you for

college or “the real world”. You are treated like a child that cannot make its

own decisions. If anything, it gives these young assholes a false reality of

what the world is like. We do our best to shelter our children up until the very

last minute we are able to and that is high school graduation. How does this

benefit anyone? We have ended up with a mass of adult children.

I think we become selfish when we grow up. Not even grow up, just get old

and refuse to change. Many children dream of becoming doctors or

veterinarians or astronauts and such things because they like the idea of

helping people or animals or science or whatever interests them most whilst

helping out the world. As you get older, you care less about the greater

good, the higher being, and more about how you can help yourself. Vets

don’t make enough money, becoming an astronaut is so hard and lately,

seemingly futile. Doctors suddenly become doctors for capitol. Some people

never grow up, they just age. I’ve gotten older but there is still that

innocence of a child in me telling my conscious that it must help.

I tried really hard to retain as much knowledge from high school. I really did.

But again, everyone’s brain is wired differently. Math is not my thing. Science

is not my thing. It’s not that I didn’t want to do it. I was actually very

interested in both, but I was pullin’ Cs all throughout high school. I tried my

damn hardest but I do not have the brain capacity for formulas and figures

and number equations. I wish I did. It only got harder and harder to get by. I

was drowning in Physics, Pre-Calculus, and my dear lady Mary Jane my junior

year of high school.

Now, I’m sure you want to blame my terrible grades and lack of motivation

on pot. Why wouldn’t you? Potheads are known for being stupid and lazy. But

in my case, anyway, I feel pot is not to blame. If anything, it made me feel

better when I felt like shit. Is that such a bad thing? I knew I wasn’t any good

at this stuff. I tried to study, I did my homework. But there’s only so much

you can do of something you don’t understand. So I smoked pot so I could

enjoy any part of my life. Without being able to relax and calm down on

occasion—so it was a daily occasion… Whatever! It feels good to feel good,

sometimes. Why is that such a crime? The amount of pot I smoke didn’t

really affect my grades, it simply affected my attitude. I was getting the

same grades, but I was getting older. I had taken high school seriously the

first two years and it wasn’t going well. I finally stopped giving a shit because

I fucking needed to. Text books are not my thing. I’ll read books for pleasure

all day long (well, when I’m not trying to write one).

And you know, I can’t deny the fact that I’m still pretty smart aside from the

subjects I cannot seem to fathom. I have always gotten decent grades, but

even when I was slipping further and further from comprehension in some

subjects, I continued to pull As in English and Social Studies. That’s just what

I do. My knowledge is of words and thoughts. I prefer the abstract ideas

created from observation rather than the slightly more concrete theories

born from experience. I do like to experience in my day-to-day life, that’s for

sure. Every single day of my life tends to be an outrageous experience, and I

love that. But what I’m truly interested in and what I know very well is the

human brain and not so much the world around me. I’m sorry I don’t have a

use for every category of your general education. Why the fuck should it

even matter?

Marijuana also helped with my apparent OCD.

The worst part about Physics wasn’t even the Physics part of it. It wasn’t my

teacher, either. I actually liked my teacher, even if not many others did. He

was pretty understanding of the fact that I would never understand what he

was trying to teach me, but he tried helping me endlessly, anyway. This is

my book and in it, he’s cool. The real worst part about Physics, folks, were

the chairs. There are no desks in labs; instead, tables and chairs. I pushed

every one of them in every day. I wouldn’t start until everyone was gone and

I wouldn’t leave until each one was done. I don’t know why, it would just

bother me if I didn’t. I did this everyday because I knew there would be

consequences to pay if I didn’t. I didn’t know the consequences, but I didn’t

want to have to pay them. They tell me all good things must come to an

end…

There was this one day we had to go from our room to another room to do

some experiment. This is a science class, after all! So my class is filing out

the door and I’m pushing in their chairs and he tells me I can’t and we have

to go. So I go. As I walk away from the chairs, I start scratching my hand.

With my right index and middle fingers, I scratched the back of my left hand

raw. I didn’t stop. I barely helped with whatever we were doing. I think

people in that class assumed I was a lazy pothead, but really I just didn’t

ever know what the fuck was going on. Not because I was stoned—even if I

was, sometimes. I simply can’t do Physics. Anyway, this period was already

really weird, but it couldn’t stop there. I got called out of class and taken

down to the office for my first time at Parliament. I barely remember getting

called down to the office before Parliament. I was very, very confused. I

never really did anything wrong. I couldn’t figure out why they wanted me.

One of pointless, gossipy hall monitors walked me down and thought I was a

freshman. Okay, lady, just because you don’t know me doesn’t mean I’m

new. It means I don’t give a fuck about you. And come on, meow. You just

pulled me out of Physics. How many freshmen do you know in Physics? Just

me? Hm. Seems very likely, doesn’t it…

I’m told there’s a detective that wants to talk to me. Talk to me? Question

me? They have a detective in Parliament to drill me and I couldn’t think of a

single reason they’d want to speak to me. I was still a good kid for the most

part, especially pertaining to in school activity. I felt like I should have been

nervous, but I wasn’t guilty of anything. I was sorely confused, though. I was

pulled into the “interrogation room,” across the hall from ma English dude. It

was starting to become funny to me. They were taking me pretty seriously

and I couldn’t take them at all seriously. If I were a criminal, I’d be Robin

Hood; not robbin’ hoods.

Things became hilarious when I finally found out what was going on. My boss

made a dumbass mistake. When I had gotten my first job, I didn’t know my

social security number by heart. I had it written down on a piece of paper I

had given to my boss so that he could pay me. Apparently, I didn’t write big

enough because he had the wrong number. Oi vey! Some girl and her mom

convinced the school administration that I was trying to steal her identity

and I had to be the one to tell this detective that it was a dumbass mistake

my boss made and he was wasting his time. Honestly, I don’t know why this

girl even complained. I would have been giving her money. Of course, this

had to go down at the most awkward time while I am in the midst of trying to

dig holes through my hands with my own phalanges. Love my life.

“Lauren is ridiculous.” The Recycling Fairy

The worst part about this day didn’t happen on this day. It was the fact that

my Physics teacher told my mom at conferences two weeks later. It made

my mom want to get me help. I had sort of asked for it before, but nothing

ever became of it. As nothing became of it then. I’ve always been my own

therapist and I think I’m doing a decent job…

Even if I am a little crazy…

I have always had too much shit and none of it has ever been “together.” I

don’t know if I’ll ever get my shit together, on account there is so much of it.

That’s why I’m putting all this shit on the table. We all have problems. I’m

just willing to admit them. The thing about problems is that they will never

be solved unless they are admitted to but people are generally too shy and

shameful to want to think of themselves as flawed. I’ve known there’s

something wrong with me as long as I have known anything else. Age only

makes it easier on me and me harder on the rest of the world.

So I kept smoking weed. It was better than doing the myriad of other drugs

available to me. I’d take focus pills or anti-depressants on occasion and I

continued to smoke. It’s a hell of a lot better than some of the shit these kids

were doing! Parliament was—maybe still is—notorious for its rampant heroin

use. Crack was beginning to work its way up there, too. I know because my

best friend was a total fucking crack head in high school. We worked

together at a bakery and it was pretty much the worst shit ever. She’d leave

school early without me to go to Detroit to get high, so I’d get a ride from

someone else and smoke a bowl on the way. By the time we got to work, I

was in the sky and she was on the ground. It was nearly impossible for us to

get along.

It’s not like all my memories of her in high school were bad. She’s still my

best friend, and I can’t say that about most of my best friends. She’s seen

me freak out. She’s listened to me bitch more than anyone. And you know

what else she’s always done? Take my advice. It’s cool, man. She’s probably

the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t even feel bad that

there was a time in our history I didn’t like her because I had to do it, just as I

have for others since then. A drunk girlfriend and I went to the most

trustworthy counselor at Parliament because we loved her and hated what

she was doing. But sometimes, you gotta leave a person in the dust to get

them back to the gold. I think she knows all about this now, even if she

doesn’t remember it happening then.

“I owe her my life. If I had not become best friends with her, I would have nothing

and I would be best friends with [people I have nothing in common with]. We are

around each other so much it is disgusting. Lauren and I seem to come as a pair at

times, except she is always the better one on all levels. Lauren is the craziest

person I know and it is a wonder why I am still friends with her. One time, I kicked

her and she almost threw soap on me when we were having a fight at work. Another

time, we spent $55 at the Dollar Store and it was very pathetic.” My best friend

The reason she said I was the better one was because at a time she was

smoking crack, the Mad Hatter and I had accidentally smoked a joint laced

with cocaine. I liked it, but I didn’t do cocaine again until much later. The

fight we had at work never existed, but some girl we worked with thought for

sure we were a lesbian couple. We blamed a booze bruise on my back on my

best friend and staged a fake fight, just to seal that lesbian deal because I

don’t know, it was fun to fuck with people and we were pretty fucked up.

But that was high school. Everyone getting fucked up. The jocks and shit

may have not been doing hard drugs like us freaks or whatever, but you best

believe they love to get smashed-trashed wasted. And you best believe I was

forced to hear about it for four years. I drank a little bit in high school. If I did,

it was in the Hills with KALM—a load of bad decisions or in with any of my

various girlfriends. Even when I would get drunk on a more frequent occasion

than I do now, I never gave a fuck about how drunk and stupid other people

got because I didn’t like being drunk and stupid myself. It’s all high school

bullshit. I think it’s so funny how being an alcoholic in high school is the

fucking coolest thing. You know people go to rehab for that shit, right?

Somewhere that year, I met my soul mate. It took me years to figure out

that’s what it was. I remember the first time I saw him. I felt a need to be

friends with him, so I waved to him. Every time I saw him every day. It wasn’t

until I knew his date / girlfriend at homecoming that we actually spoke. He

smoked weed and was a theater kid. We quickly became friends. He dumped

that stupid bitch like a month later. I stupidly, drunkenly confessed to him

that I had a huge crush on him. It didn’t go well, considering we weren’t who

we are yet. I accepted then that I would always be just friends with my soul

mate. Being a crushed spirit, I decided to do whatever came at me because

there was no way I was ever going to be good enough to get what I wanted

and that was my soul mate.

All I cared about junior year was marijuana, Jane’s Addiction, and stage crew.

What could be better to add to the mix than sex? At the prime age of

sixteen, I was ready to throw my V-card out the window and that is indeed

what I did. I gave it to the first guy willing to take it. He had such a small dick

I feel like it shouldn’t count, but it was in the catwalk of the auditorium, so I

kind of want it to. I’m such a bad ass, huh? Upon climbing down a ladder of

shame, I became shameless. I was pretty happy with it. I loved the idea of

doing whatever I wanted for whatever reason I so pleased. My life had

become sex, drugs, and rock n roll. Well… I guess it was also sex, drugs, and

show tunes.

I still wasn’t attractive. I was still pretty fat and pretty rude. I still did not give

a fuck. I’ll always cry about things that hurt my feelings behind closed doors,

but I generally remain unphased. And stoned! I looked a lot different in high

school, but so much of me has gone unchanged. Just as I do now, all I really

wanted was some good conversation. It was just hard-pressed to find in

Parliament High.

“Lauren has a fondness for abstract, sarcastic conversations with me, as well as

insulting [a douche bag ex-boyfriend] from a distance.” Ma dude

Eventually, I dated the punk. I left the previously stated douche bag for him.

It was like a dream of my fourteen-year-old heart come true, but it was not

entirely satisfying to my sixteen-year-old life. He didn’t have a car or a phone

or a job or whatever, and I only had two out of three. It was cool, but it was

lackluster, I suppose. On my seventeenth birthday, I met my high school

boyfriend. Two weeks after meeting him, I was dating him and about a

month after that, we were “in love.” I had never been loved before. Maybe I

had been but I never felt like it. It was a great feeling. He pretty much

worshipped me and I never thought of myself as being worthy of being

worshipped. It made me feel happy. That was cool. I can barely remember

how it felt now, but I guess it was worth my life at the time. I don’t think

people should ever disappear from their lives to be with one person, but I

think everyone deserves to feel blissfully happy. If that’s what it takes, then

do it. Just don’t do it forever.

He’s an alcoholic but he quit drinking for me so I quit smoking for him. I’m

glad I did, just because it’s proof that I could. However, I never want to be

with someone that would make me quit smoking. I love smoking weed. If you

can’t love me when I smoke weed, I guess you don’t really love me. It was

probably good for me at the time, I imagine it was. I will simply never do it

again.

The best and most important part of my entire relationship with HSBF was

the weekend we spent on the west side of Michigan.

ROTHBURY ’09: THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT IN MY LIFE

If someone demanded I describe it in one term, it would have to be the 40 th

Anniversary of Woodstock. I still can’t believe I even went. Having gone to Lolla the

year before, I was psyched to be going to another festival. It was my first camp out.

And man, oh man. Oh man. I can’t even. Wow.

We were a three-car caravan. I was so excited and I didn’t even know what was

coming to me. I knew I was about to see some incredible performances, but I didn’t

know anything about the Grateful Dead so the Dead meant nothing to me. I had

never heard of the String Cheese Incident, I didn’t really listen to Bob Dylan, and I

hadn’t heard of so many more of the bands on the line-up, but I knew. I don’t know

what I knew, but I knew. And until you figure it out yourself, you’ll never know.

We arrived at five a.m. and sat in a line of hippies. It was the most awe-inspiring

sight I had ever seen! Fucking Hippies! The only hippies I had ever known were the

ones I was related to and never had I see so many. And the line was really short. We

got it and by seven a.m. we had camp set up. There was a beer in my right hand

and a blunt in my left hand. I’d never had so much fun in my life and the weekend

hadn’t started yet. It was the first time in my young life I felt true freedom. Lolla

offered some freedom to my life, but there is still a city of society to deal with at the

end of each night. Your campsite becomes your home for four days and all your

neighbors are the most legit people in the entire world. It was like being a part of a

community that Suburbia could never be, no matter how hard they tried to force it.

I knew going into it that I was going to try drugs. Our HSBFs had done shit like acid,

and I’d been curious about it for a while. I knew what this weekend had in store for

me. Based on the love I fell into at a festival and the pre-existing curiosity of drugs, I

knew this weekend was going to be a most interesting experience. I had no idea

that it would change my life as it did. There’s no way I could go into detail about the

weekend I had. You should definitely open your mind as far as it will expand and

check out a festival, though.

I took acid almost every day. I tried ecstasy, ate mushrooms, smoked all sorts of

marijuana-related goodies, and even took a shot of 100% Spanish absinthe—The

Black Fairy. I chased it with a nasty Busch light. I think a lot of people go to these

things solely to get fucked up and that’s what I don’t like about it. I barely felt the

drugs I consumed that weekend, but I did learn an awful lot about them. I was sure

to eat food and drink water the whole weekend. Above all, I was sure to have a

good time. To be very honest, I was slightly disappointed in the drugs because I was

looking to get fucked up like anyone else. I’m so happy it didn’t happen that way. I

needed to watch every motion of the Double JJ Ranch those four days. I wouldn’t

trade these memories for the world, and I find them all too precious to share. These

movements I wished to be a part of but did not yet understand were incredibly

intimate, but not among our two eyes. I did not see colours. I did not see shapes. I

simply saw through my third eye.

It truly was a time slip of a time warp. Rather than being in Grant Park this new

millennium, I was reliving the glory days of the hippie movement. It was so

beautiful. I felt the spirit of the festival but this time, it was so much stronger. A tent

can become such a strong bond. Leave the bricks in the suburbs; I want to be with

all of you always. It’s like saying, hey, I trust you to trust me to love you to love me.

Fifty thousand strong for peace. The spirit was alive and thriving, but it was then I

discovered the ultimate drive of the spirit. It does not pertain only to festivals, but it

seems to be most well-received at them. It is not restricted to any group of people,

but it is present where welcome. It is, after all, everything. How could anything not

be a part of everything?

The Universe is one very big place and we are all very small.

It was like I found where I belong whilst also answering my bother questions of

religion and solving the puzzles behind science. I am very happy to have spent this

weekend with HSBF because it surely would have been a shame to spend

something so special alone, even if it wasn’t the right person. It was very cool to

have someone to be a part of everything with. It was great to be with someone that

made me happy when I was surrounded by all the happiest people I had ever seen.

People want to believe the smiles are synthetically made. Maybe they are. Maybe it

is a shame I fell for. But I will say, I think it would be damn near impossible not to

crack one real one, teeth and all, upon witnessing being encompassed by a fence

but absolutely no walls. Instead of being concerned of what others would think as

most of our population is, no one gives a fuck at a festival in the best way possible.

We are not here to judge anyone for whoever they are, so long as it does not

infringe uncomfortably on the being of another. Only under the overwhelming love

of the Universe brought together by some of the most outstanding shows I’ve yet to

witness are we safe to exist. That, in turn, allows a patron to feel nothing but all the

powerful, positive energy human beings have to offer.

My mind was blown clear off my shoulders and even if I wasn’t blown, it still would

have taken off. It is such a good feeling to do whatever you want. What’s really so

fantastic is the absence of violence and hatred among a very large group of mostly

strangers. Even better is how many people were once strangers but have become

family in this very manner. It is the most beautiful thing to witness this. It’s like a

break from the dark and scary world this place is.

Upon returning from Rothbury, I was a new person. I do believe it was a

change for the better. I will always have kinks, but I most definitely

improved. The biggest difference was the change in my general attitude. I

learned to love HSBF before then, but I was still angry. I still hated pretty

much everyone and I held onto a lot of old angst. I didn’t care about much of

anything except the planet and my friends. Rothbury put a new hope in my

heart. I suddenly had some faith in humanity knowing we were capable of a

seemingly impossible display. I wanted to change the world again.

I wanted everyone to take acid.

That sounds so stupid now that I know any better. But man, oh, man. I

thought Timothy Leary was spot on with his lifestyle of taking a shit ton of

acid with a bunch of hippies all the time. It sounded like a great idea because

I really liked it. The Mad Hatter and I went with some girl to Lollapalooza ’09.

I got to see Jane’s Addiction at their own festival. We ended up taking a lot of

ecstasy because that was all we could get. It didn’t bother me not to have

drugs, but it kind of bothered him. I knew someday, it would all change.

About two months later, my cousins and our boyfriends took some and

tripped the hardest I’ve tripped to this day at an elementary school park.

HSBF and I decided we should have more of this to share and sell, so we split

a sheet. I was selling acid I paid $7.50 a hit for at an even twenty. Sorry,

guys. Demand was higher than supply. It seemed like I was one of the only

people that had acid at Parliament. I suppose that is why someone once

referred to me as the Acid Queen to my then-unsuspecting brother. I guess I

had a bigger reputation than I was even aware of because I guess a lot of

people knew about what I had.

I never totaled the money I made of those fifty hits, but I pulled some money

in. I was taking some of it, too. I was taking acid about once a month. It was

always with HSBF and I always had fun. For a moment, it was sort of all I was

interested in. I’m happy to have grown out of the slight obsession I had, but I

can’t lie… It was nice to be able to quit my job and still have some money.

Everything about my life seemed really good. It felt like it was the first time it

was ever good. Really good, like really enjoyable. I was learning more and

more about acid and other psychedelics, which entailed the Universe and the

music I have grown to love. HSBF and I were good, too. It was so nice to be

loved and to love someone that loved me. My family loved him and I think

they all expected us to get married because he fit in so well and he really

loved it and it was satisfying to have done something right. And you know, I

can admit that I thought I was going to marry him. I’m so happy I didn’t.

There was too much life had to offer me to have become a housewife like I

could have. When everything about my life was feeling so perfect, life had to

pitch one mad curve ball to strike me out.

I got pregnant.

To keep it simple, I missed my period in October. I took a test. It was

negative. I got my period in November. I figured I was good. HSBF was in his

native U.K. for New Year’s and week surrounding, so I ate some mushrooms

with my soul mate and went to a lock-in at his old Christian school. Oh, what

a terrible idea that was. We dipped and went to a hookah bar. I thought that

sounded like a terrible idea, too, but it turned out to be pretty fuckin’ sweet.

It’s been the only New Year I’ve had champagne poured on me. It was later

that morning I got the feeling I was not in the clear. Something told me it

wasn’t just the mushrooms. I took another test when he returned to the

country. It was positive. Exactly what I wanted.

Psych.

Even before this happened, I made it clear to him and the rest of the world

that if I got pregnant, I’d abort mission. It wasn’t a very hard decision for me

to make. I think this should have been the first sign that we wouldn’t have

lasted. I refused to start a family with him. I didn’t want to be tied to him yet.

I didn’t want no fuckin’ baby, and I didn’t really want anyone to know I had

one in me. I was seventeen, scared as Hell, and on my way there. We went

to a clinic where I was informed I had to first go to court and ask a judge

permission to do this because I wouldn’t ask my parents. I had some flakey

ass lawyer that was of no use to me but took a couple hundred dollars for

being there. I returned to the clinic with my permission slip only to be told I

was too late for them to help me. I was in my second trimester.

Fuck.

This is where people get tripped up about abortions. The timing is

everything. Most people can accept or forgive a first trimester abortion

because it is so under developed. Once you get into second, people are far

more relentless and disapproving. Third trimester is pretty much out of the

realm of possibility for most people. It should only be done in case of medical

emergency, in my opinion. Other people have different opinions… Like the

religious man that shot up a third trimester clinic in some other state…

Makes sense to be mad about people killing potential babies and seeking

revenge by killing full grown adults trying to help women in potential fatal

danger. If that gets you in Heaven, I don’t think that’s a place I really want to

be.

I’m sorry I didn’t know I was pregnant. Should I have had the kid just

because my body didn’t show any signs of it being inhabited by what would

become a human being? I’m sorry, but would you have really wanted a

seventeen-year-old girl to have a baby? I wasn’t ready. The immediate

response is always adoption. Well, shit, if I’m gonna be pregnant I might as

well keep it. I was doing drugs and smoking cigarettes the whole pregnancy,

who knows what would have come out. I’m not about to let someone pay

good money for a baby that could have ended up dead. I didn’t think it was

worth the risk or the humiliation, I suppose. Maybe that’s selfish, but I also

didn’t want to be stuck with someone just because I had to be. That wouldn’t

have been very fair to anyone. I didn’t want this child. I didn’t suddenly want

it because it was more developed than we all thought. I’m sorry if that makes

me a shitty person. I tried not to be selfish, but if it’s inside me, isn’t that a

part of me and therefore my decision?

The male argument is that it is fifty percent his. Even though he paid for

most of it, it was not what he wanted. Well, maybe if you would have used

condoms like I asked you to off the bat or at least had more control over your

dick the thing would have been 100% non-existent. Sorry. Don’t care about

what you think.

I went to two more clinics to ask for help. I was turned away from one, put on

a table and rejected from another. Finally, I had the saving grace of

WomanCare. Instead of a tension-filled office of doom and negativity, these

nurses actually sympathized with their patients and truly encouraged them

to avoid having the problem again. They were comforting rather than cold. I

finally felt some relief knowing after a two-day procedure, this nightmare

would be over.

One of the best feelings I’ve ever felt was the feeling of emptiness. I had

never felt so grateful to be so empty, literally.

I never went back for my check-up. I’m pretty sure they’re all closed now. It’s

unfortunate, because I feel like they were the only clinic that actually cared. I

will always appreciate that. We all make mistakes. This was my biggest. I

know that. But I promise I am not a heartless murderer like you think I am. I

had to face protesters offering me a baby shower if I would change my mind.

Make my day worse, why don’t you? Stepping foot through that door was a

safe haven from the disapproving world of conservatives I came from. I’m

sorry you don’t agree with the things I have done, but you will not stop me

from doing what I need to do. It’s my life, not yours. It was my unborn, not

yours.

A month after the ordeal was over, I turned eighteen. That was annoying. I

could have saved so much time and money and moral had I just already

been eighteen. My life couldn’t be any other way.

I tried to go about business as usual. I maintained my drug dealing and

suddenly expanding social life. I did a damn good job covering up. Or so I

think. I was finally hanging out with those stoners I thought were really cool

the whole time I was in high school but later realized weren’t that cool. It was

this crowd that introduced me to my first “girlfriend”: the Fickle Fairy.

It’s funny, because I got my soul mate to date her. Probably because I

couldn’t date her because we are both straight. We became best friends very

quick. I didn’t really notice it at the time, but she started to dress like me.

What I did notice was how I began to act like her. I don’t know, she’s really

immature but after what had just happened behind the closed doors of the

clinics, all I wanted was to be a kid again. We’d sing and sometimes smoke

weed and go to Ram and hang out with the homeboys and go to the thrift

store and I don’t know. I was obsessed with this girl even though she more

than slightly resembled a middle schooler in more ways than one. Shit, she

was a self-proclaimed middle schooler. I’d forgotten how much I hate them.

Because this is a record: John the Magician is a bad ass.

You would think anything that happened in high school or the months after

would really matter now, but I know bitches still holdin’ grudges from middle

school. I’m sorry; I didn’t think you knew what love was when you said, “I’m

in love with him.” I’m sorry these boys that you wanted so badly wanted me

more. I take what I can get; guess that makes me a whore. Either way, I feel

a curse was put on me the day you told me I was a bad friend. I didn’t mean

to take your dream away, but I apologized. You can’t forgive me? I didn’t

know it was going to hurt you so bad. If I could have an apology from each of

the bitches that hurt me, I’d feel richer than a book could ever make me. But

I never get ‘em, why do I keep givin’ ‘em?

I guess I know when it’s my fault. Whatever. The fairy lasted six months, as

has every bitch to follow. It seems as though she has done this “We’re the

best friends ever” for about six months with every girl she’s been friends

with since. Maybe it started before me, but I know it’s happened ever since. I

crossed her, but part of me feels like she deserved it on the behalf of

everyone she’s crossed. If nothing else, that must make me a terrible

person.

“Lauren made me terrified to date or be close to anyone.” The Death of Grunge

I wouldn’t have made it through that last year of high school without my soul

mate. I got to know him better than basically anyone. We spend so much

time together and only spent more together later. We even went for cutest

couple in our senior yearbook because we couldn’t get the best friend award

because we’re opposite genders or something stupid. It’s like he should have

been my high school boyfriend because he was actually there for me. I

wasn’t exactly grieving and I wasn’t exactly feeling guilty but I was really

thinking about it. I was going to prom and graduating and still with this guy

and trying to live my life like it didn’t happen, mostly because he didn’t want

to think about it so we never talked about it but he didn’t want me to tell

anyone else. Thanks for the support, asshole. But he bought me a ticket to

Bonnaroo for my birthday that year. I graduated high school with a 2.79, had

a party where I collected three grand, and left for Bonnaroo the first week of

being out \m/.

And don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll ever birth children. Maybe a long time from

now if it’s one of the two men whose babies I would have, but I’d rather

adopt because I chose not to have the one that was given to me. Seems only

fair. Also really sorry I never sent out my thank you notes on account of

being a fuck-up. I wrote most of them, but I wanted them to be personal and

I never finished. I’m really sorry. I hope everyone knows how much I

appreciate their gifts and more importantly, their support. Onward.

BONNAROO ’10: THE PARTY AT WHICH I WAS INTRODUCED TO WAYNE COYNE

The only real reason I went to Bonnaroo was because Rothbury was cancelled for

reasons unknown. There were a few rumours that went around about it (such as the

Ranch going out of business; the city of Rothbury wanting a noise ordinance to take

effect at 11 p.m. each night; the city not wanting to be affiliated with the festival;

there was even one that someone was killed…) but I still don’t know why they

cancelled it. It makes me really sad that I will never be at Rothbury, but how could

they have topped the perfect line-up? It was okay because Stevie Wonder was

headlining Bonnaroo that year and that was reason enough for me to want to go.

The Flaming Lips were going to play Dark Side of the Moon in its entirety, too. I love

Pink Floyd. I knew nothing of Wayne Coyne and the only Flaming Lips song I knew

was She Don’t Use Jelly and it frustrated me because if she uses Vaseline, she’s

kind of using jelly… Just petroleum jelly…

It’s funny, because I was really excited to see the Flaming Lips for Dark Side, but it

ended up being the only truly relevant part of my weekend. I had so much fun, like

any other festival. It was a great fuckin’ time I wouldn’t trade for any other great

time, but I’d trade Bonnaroo to relive Rothbury had the Flaming Lips not been there.

The other performers were really awesome to see, but I had never and have still

never seen anything like a Flaming Lips show. They came out and did a set of their

songs before playing Dark Side. This was the first time I heard anything else by

them. Imagine that, you’re on three hits of acid with some of your best friends at a

festival with 100,000 people and “Do You Realize??” is being played live in front of

you. I’d never heard that song. I cried. I have never had such a smile on my face

and I couldn’t help but fucking cry. Few things in this world are more beautiful than

the words of Wayne Coyne.

But it was hot as fuck and so far away, it would take Peter Gabriel or someone

almost as important to get me back to Bonnaroo. Sure, it was recording-breaking

heat the weekend I was in Tennessee, but there were way too many drunken frat

boys for me to give a shit about going back. It’s a tourist attraction and I’d rather go

to a festival…

It’s almost hard to remember now, but I think this was the time my soul

mate’s best friend shot himself. In the week leading up to his suicide, I talked

some mad shit about him because he dinned and dashed at Ram and I had

to pay his bill. I didn’t want my soul mate hanging out with him because I felt

he was a bad influence. I had just met his girlfriend, my Wasteland Princess,

too. I really liked her. But in my book, he was bad. Now, I just feel bad that I

didn’t try to make things good.

It makes you really think about what you say. It’s funny, because the Fairy

went through this with me, though she had only met the kid once so it really

didn’t make a difference to her. I told her how responsible I felt for his death,

even though it was no fault of my own. I explained to her how disturbed I

was that some kid I said didn’t deserve to live was a dead a week later. She

pretended to be as shook up about it as me, because she talked the shit with

me. I thought it made our bond more stable than others, but she actually

doesn’t have feelings about much of anything. It didn’t make any difference

to her. She’s heartless. She taught me about robots.

By July, HSBF found a lump in my breast. Aw, great. I had to approach my

mom as delicately as possible about the matter, because she was very prone

to freaking out on account that she is a nurse and has dealt with some really

terrible things. As casual as I tried to be about finding this shit, she

immediately started making panicked phone calls in fear that I was ridden

with cancer because I guess some relative of mine was diagnosed with it

when she was very young like me. So it wasn’t looking too promising.

It scared my mom more than it scared me. The thought of having cancer

made me sad, but I was ready to blame only myself for saying things like,

“Everything gives you cancer. We’ll probably all die of cancer. I’ve come to

terms with it.” God, I’m such a nasty sarcastic bitch, sometimes! As it turns

out, it wasn’t cancer. It was a lump of hormones commonly found in teenage

girls and pregnant women. Ha ha. Good thing I’d been both… But man, was I

grateful for that one. It seemed like he was a little less appreciative of my

good news. He chose to stay at home to watch movies with his sister than

come visit me while I was glued to my couch after surgery. Thanks, bro. I

have surgery like every day, so I get that your sister can’t wait until next

weekend or like, tomorrow. It caused a fight which he would probably still

want to say he was right. We broke up that night. I cried. It makes me laugh

now. He came over the next day and we decided we should not break up,

just take a break.

I don’t remember what the real difference was. I guess I smoked pot more

often and whenever I wanted. I hung out with my friends and didn’t watch as

much television. I enjoyed it. I hung out with a new crowd of Pall Mall kids

that I met at Ram.

Side-note: Pall Mall is this district in Suburbia that didn’t want to be a part of

Suburbia but didn’t want to be its own city, I guess… And I’ve met so many people

at Ram. Too many hours became too many people.

I danced with a boy I will always have a crush on but neither of us ever had

the courage to make the first move. I also found books in my basement. I

found Songs of the Doomed by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, which I never

completed, and Living with the Dead: Twenty Years on the Bus with Jerry

Garcia and the Grateful Dead by Rock Scully, which has since become my

Bible. That book pretty much made me a Dead Head. I fell in love with the

Grateful Dead. I would tell their stories like they were my friends and I bet

my real friends got really annoyed by that. This was also the time I watched

the series Freaks and Geeks. (Oh my god, am I Lindsey Weir or what?) All I

wanted to do was live in the 60s and follow the Dead. Since this was

impossible, I did the next best thing I could and went to Hoxeyville to see the

Dead I could.

HOXEYVILLE ‘10: THE REMAINING EVIDENCE TO CONNECT COMPLETELY

Hoxeyville is probably the best festival I have ever been to. It didn’t have the best

line-up because Rothbury takes the whole damn dessert table for that one. The only

band I really knew was Rhythm Devils, Mickey Harte and Bill Kruetzmann’s band.

That was enough to make me go. Plus, it was a straight hundo and forty minutes

south of Cherry City. One car went a day early because they volunteered for a full

refund at the end of the weekend. We got there Friday to find our campsite in the

woods next to the camp sites. Immediately upon arrival, I fell deeply in love with

where I was.

It was a very small space and about as many people as I went to high school with, if

not less. I have never experienced something so open and intimate. It truly was a

family affair. It may have been my favourite festival (ah, fuck, man! If the fucking

Flaming Lips and the Dead played at Hoxeyville, fuck!!!) because it was so personal.

There were no drunken assholes, no inconsiderate fucks, but no fucks to be given.

Care to be shared, love to pass around. It was happiness for miles even though the

festival was smaller than a suburban neighborhood. It was everything I love about

festivals realized among these trees and hippies with long-haired children. I was

surrounded by Dead Heads. Time warp round two!

You know, maybe I was young and naïve, but I’m tellin’ you. There is nothing like it.

There is absolutely nothing like forming as strong of a bond as I found at Hoxeyville

with a bunch of strangers for three days covered in nature and music. I didn’t know

what pretty much any of the music was, but there were some damn good bands. I

hula-hooped in a pouring fucking thunderstorm to some jazzy hip-hop band from K-

zoo, FunKtion. They were amazing. It was one of the best times I have ever had. It

ruined my favourite pair of pants, formerly known as “the acid pants.” It was worth

the trip, that’s for damn sure. Jammin’ to some Dead songs with some Devils was

exactly what I needed, too. When I had done it the first time, it was the first time I

had heard the songs! If only I could do it again.

The real evidence came from Sindy, though.

HSBF had bought me the coolest little wiggly metal fishy necklace on Thursday. He

didn’t give it to me until he got off his volunteer shift Friday. He was working with

Sindy so the rest of us were straight chillin’ next to the tent to keep them company.

At Hoxeyville, you see everyone all the time. When you go to a festival like

Bonnaroo, you probably won’t see everyone that is there, or if you do, you won’t

see most of them more than once. At Hoxeyville, you just start saying hello to

people you may have never spoken to but whose faces you have seen a dozen

times. Saturday evening, we bumped hips with her again. We sat at Keller Williams

and chitty-chatted it up, I guess. She wanted us to go to a festival EOTO was

headlining the next weekend that I truly wish I could have attended. In the future, I

had one chance to see EOTO and Pretty Lights blew it! It was basically worth it

because it was awesome, but still gotta see EOTO, yo.

Anyway… Lollying around the point…

We were sitting in a hula-hoop and she pulls out a pouch and asked me if I had any

string. All I had was the string my fishy was on. When I pulled it out from my shirt,

she covered her mouth in amazement.

“I swear I didn’t see that.”

She hands me a seahorse fashioned and coloured in the same way as my fishy

friend. Her friend gave it to her before she came to Hoxeyville telling her she would

know what to do with it. Bonnaroo had me thinking I was a fairy, but I really am a

little mermaid. Always have been. I named the fishy Samson and the seahorse was

Delilah.

Hoxeyville was exactly what I needed to finish my last high school summer.

Of course, the one after graduation was my favourite. I broke up with HSBF

because some dude sweet-talked his way into my pants and didn’t even get

the job done. He ruined the relationship I had with the boyfriend and my best

friend. I’m so glad it happened, because I hate to think I would have been

stuck forever. I can’t say it was worth it because it was some of the worst

“sex” I’ve ever had and he gets douchier and douchier as time goes on, but

it all happens for a reason. That’s one undeniable thing high school taught

me.

Thing is, if you think that having my empty abortion pill bottles “is like killing

someone and keeping the gun,” I don’t think I really love you.

Thanks, pencil dick.

***

It’s like, when you take acid, you expand your brain about as far as it will go.

It isn’t humanly impossible to do without drugs, because your mind is

capable of the act—even when drug-induced. It is just a fast track to thinking

more rapid thoughts with a broader horizon. Many people feel the same

effect or feeling from experiencing this new way of thinking, and that is

everything thinking with them. I guess this is Universal Consciousness.

“Lauren is a walking juxtaposition of post-modern ideals.” Kenny, it’s like you knew

this is what I’d do

My mental health was on the rise, my spirituality took off, and I was on my

way into the real-ass world (lol) of college strife.

LOL Fuck my life LY

‘Tis a sorrowful week when I cannot see

That face, so big and so round

A girl, a cousin, the dearest to me

Especially with snow on the ground

Although the drab Winter may not be the best

When Autumn, we speed through leaf piles

And Spring we can frolic and relive the fest

And ignore the wailing of smiles

Oh, I miss you, as does J. Mack

For the other—I can’t say the same

I remember the days, but I’ll never turn back

It’s a shame the scene is so lame

Lauren Scott, do not be malicious

Just listen to Rush; lead singer, Sid Vicious

-My best cuz

“Roll those laughing bones”

SEX, DRUGS, AND DUBSTEP

“All the billion other moments were just slipping all away”

What I love about this chapter is that in the time between writing it and releasing it, I have actually seen the phrase “SEX, DRUGS, & DUBSTEP” printed on clothing and accessories. Weird, because when I started raving, I didn’t even know what dubstep was. I had to ask my brother because no one I knew had really ever heard of it. Now, you can’t really go into public without hearing it play from the speakers above you.

You can probably date the rave scene as early as the eighties because those days of the new gay club scene birthed the rave scene; though it primed in the nineties when everyone was too fascinated with grunge to notice it. I don’t think there has been a period in which absolutely no one was raving since it started, but I do think more people are doing it now than ever before. The former queen of the underground—the Rave—has shamelessly whored herself out of counter-culture and has become the dead-center of popular culture.

LOLWUT?...

It’s almost awkward. Back in the day, raves were held wherever could be found. People didn’t ask permission to throw them or advertise them publically. They found the biggest empty spaces they could to hold as many people that were going to call for the location of this space. They were often busted, broken, and raided the fuck out of because I imagine they would never be all too subtle. Now, they book deejays in the same place I

graduated. Seeing Pretty Lights on a stage where I walked across a stage for a diploma, whew. What a doozy. Gotta doobie?

Oh, and to anyone who thought I was “trippin’ face” that night, I got a confession for you, too: I was SOBER. I took an expired, over-the-counter “NoDoz” when I got off work and smoked a little bit of weed when I got there. Not a strip of acid. I didn’t sleep much and had a rough couple days. Ha. I don’t need that shit anymore. I’m the fuckin’ trip.

To say the least, I hate it. I don’t hate all of it, obviously. Pretty Lights is still cool in my book, among others like Gaslamp Killer and Hulk. But the thing as a whole, it just doesn’t seem right to me. I can’t agree with this obsession for a culture that encourages you not to think. It’s like practically impossible to hold a thought while listening to dubstep. As soon as the music gets into a trance long enough for you form a thought, only to disrupt it with THE DROP. You complain about kids having ADD, well, damn!

One thing rave kids have right is PLUR. It’s too bad they don’t practice it.

***

You can’t prepare people for college. You either can or you can’t; and so you

do or you don’t. No amount of force is going to change that. Some people

like it and others don’t. It’s not for everyone and I’ve come to terms with the

fact that college is not my thing. Instead of telling the kids like me who can’t

seem to see the purpose in college that they are totally hopeless, we should

just better educate children up until that point. I think it would be a better

idea to give the full grade-one-through-twelve education in half the time

instead.

Middle school is totally pointless because it is just a time for kids to get mean

about one another. If it isn’t doing any good, get rid of it. Make elementary

school longer because that is prime time to mold and form. Stop treating

children like they will not end up without innocence in the world we have

created for them. Educate the fuck out of our developing brains because we

are far less likely to retain any information given to us passed the age of

twelve because you know what we will retain after that? Whatever we like.

Not whatever we’re told. Once a child is old enough to have its own opinions,

it is going to be less likely to listen. So, instead of expecting us to stay

focused on things we’ve been taught before and trying to expand on ideas

we’ve since disregarded, give us all of that information when we can actually

use it. Bet we’d have some damn smart kids.

Children are so underestimated. They don’t stay young forever and with our

technology, it’s not taking them long to grow up. They are bound to outsmart

you. You might as well give yourself a fair chance in controlling their future

by giving them a general education before they question existence. That

way, in high school, you can focus on electives and teenagers can have a

better idea of what they like and what they want to do. Maybe if they have

that, they will be less destructive. And by the time they get to college, they’ll

be like, oh my god…

Real adults.

The autumn after high school graduation, I ended up where half of my ’10

classmates expected to find their selves: on the joyous grounds of the

Suburbia Community College campus. I know some people dream of the

colleges they want to go to from the time they are young, but I was always

undecided. Kids want to get into these great universities and as they get

older, they become more realistic or dream bigger. Some people like school.

And you know what? I think that’s really cool. I wish I liked school more, but I

guess I never really have because I was never one of those kids. By my

senior year, I still had no desire to go to any college over any other. I still

didn’t give a shit. I wanted to go to Detroit’s University, but I couldn’t drive

and I wasn’t about to hitch rides to Detroit for class. I felt I had no choice but

to go to Community College. It was a decision I was resilient to make, but

one I am ultimately very happy about.

I stacked up two grand working at the bakery and had additional graduation

money. I paid for my year of classes and still had money in the bank. Good

thing because West wasn’t getting any busier. It was cigarette money. It was

also time to do my homework or watch TV. I loved it. I didn’t care that I

wasn’t making any money because I loved the people I worked with and I

loved getting to know the tables that came in. It made me fall in love with

the restaurant business because it was my ideal restaurant. I had nothing

but time to kill by putting on my best smile and doing all I could in

conversation to get them to come back again. Most of them did. That place

survived on regulars as long as it survived.

In addition to the love I had for my job, other areas of my life were pretty

awesome, too. I was hangin’ out and smokin’ weed and chillin’ at the fuckin’

Ram just about every night. Even though we did the same things night after

night, I didn’t care. I was perfectly content with what we did because I was

with people I considered to be the best friends I’d ever had. We loved and

cared about one another and things beyond ourselves and our sickly

desolate Suburbia we were trapped in. We liked having fun but we didn’t

need something to occupy the space in front of us. We were content sitting

and talking. You know, the thing I love most. All we ever did was talk and

discuss and debate. All I needed was these people and their good

conversation with the job I loved and the easiest college I could be in.

Life was good. I’m sure it would have stayed the way it was if it hadn’t been

for Circus 8. I really hope my life gets good again, or that will upset me

forever.

Had my soul mate and I not gone to Dubstep Circus 8, we wouldn’t have

brought Baby to his first rave or ma momma back to raves. Had we not

started going to raves, my wife would have never contacted me wanting to

go with us to a rave. And had we never gone to a fucking rave, we sure has

hell would have never met Cuntsack. I can’t help but absolutely despise

dubstep. Sure, there are good dubstep DJs, but too much noise and no

emotion mixed with all sorts of man-made chemicals combined and designed

to make people money by getting other people to take them, have fun on

them, want more of them, and become addicted to them. Dubstep isn’t the

sole advocate, but it certainly plays a strong role in this scenario. And it

seems as though the more mainstream dubstep becomes, the more

prominent of a vehicle for the drug scheme it is. It’s kind of crazy.

Actually, I don’t think I honestly give a shit anymore. But I think that’s not

really my point. I’m telling a story.

Some night in some harsh December snow, my soul mate asked if I wanted

to go to the Dubstep Circus. I had heard of this show from a stranger months

earlier, but I wasn’t sure what dubstep was. I looked into further details of

said circus and called him back exclaiming, “Dude, I think it’s like a rave. I

think we should go.” So we went. As soon as we got there, I felt the need to

take acid. It took me about an hour to find, but I got some and it’s a good

thing I did. I can’t last through an entire rave dancing without some

assistance, to be frank. Some cute little rave girl took me on a tour. She

introduced me to people she had met raving, took me in the bathroom to

giggle with girls, gave me a finger light to dance with, and PLUR’d my wrist

with candy. In my naivety, I fell in love with the rave scene. Mistake number

one through one hundred, you might say.

I think this was the night my soul mate met Imma Cuntsack.

Our quiet life of getting high and drinking coffee was slightly disturbed by

raves. It didn’t take long to make a habit of them, seeing as how we were

such habitual creatures of the night. We may have gone more like once a

month at first, but eventually we went every weekend. We would take

psychedelics every weekend, anyway. We were just doing something while

we did it. And a lot more Molly. I can’t remember if I had tried it before

getting involved with raves. I’d had ecstasy plenty of times, but I think the

first time I had Molly was at a rave. I think most people that have tried Molly

will tell you their first time doing it was at a rave. Or most people who have

gone to raves will tell you that they’ve tried Molly. They will die holding

hands and I wish they would die faster.

I convinced my soul mate to date Imma. He was just sleeping with her after

the raves they both went to, essentially. But then she met me. She

proceeded to find me on Facebook and sent me a message pleading me to

help her because “she has never felt the way she felt about [my soul mate]”

and other psycho bitch bullshit. But she knew I was his twin sister and she

knew I wouldn’t say no. I’m not entirely sure how she knew because we

didn’t really know each other at all at this point, but I guess it’s those

goddamn good vibes I’m always spreadin’!

He didn’t like the idea at all at first. But I made logical points like: “Just try,

you might as well”; “she’s in high school, make her happy for a month and

be done with it”; “hey, she seems like a pretty cool chick, give her a

chance”; “there’s not really anyone else you’re sleeping with”. Stupid, stupid

things I said because it convinced him to do it. In reality, I should have said,

“Stop fucking that stupid whore and date me already,” but I was an idiot and

thought he was my twin brother. In reality, he was my soul mate. Or perhaps

we shared one. Something like that. Not only two peas in a pod but the only

pod in the patch. But it’s whatever, now. His soul overdosed on ketamine.

I wanted to see him happy. I thought being in love would make him happy

but I never thought I could be the one he was in love with. Retrospectively, I

can see it. But at the time, I was not an option. So what does she do but

attempt to take on the personality reflecting of my person but not so much

hers? Much to my later distaste, it worked.

I couldn’t imagine thriving on destroying other people, but it seems that’s all

bitches want to do to me. But it took a long time for me to feel that way.

I never particularly liked Molly, but my friends did. I liked going to raves and

like I said, I couldn’t get through them sober. Not because it wasn’t

enjoyable, but it was nearly impossible. I found them to be thoroughly

enjoyable, but incredibly exhausting. And shit, I was young and free. I was

okay taking Molly out every weekend because she didn’t call me during the

week. I like that about a bitch.

The downfall began some fateful day of a brutal March in Michigan. It was

the night my soon-to-be wife (and later-to-be ex-wife) and I happened. Of

course, we happened at a rave. Not just any rave, though. We happened at

the Return of PLUR. I had known this chick for a while very casually

through a friend or two, but it wasn’t until she delivered a message to me

about wanting to rave that we became friends. She knew I was going every

weekend and she has subconsciously looking for them since the sixth grade.

It was only our destinies that brought us there. The Return of PLUR was to

this day, the best rave I’ve ever been to. It was held in a ballroom in Pontiac,

a very surprising venue for people on drugs to rage. I’m happy we did it.

I had Baby, who had recently been declared homeless, and my soul mate,

whom Baby was staying with, and occasionally ma momma with me at these

things. My wife had a new, empty house. I did the calculations very quickly in

my head and I immediately knew this was all happening. She fit in perfectly

and she could give Baby what he needed that I couldn’t give him: A home.

And I knew the home of one of the coolest chicks I’d ever met was going to

be one full of love. When it came time to actually see the house, it didn’t

take long to realize what was meant to happen.

It wasn’t a huge house, but it was a decent size—especially for a girl at that

age. We walked in through the back door because it was easier to use than

the front door. We walked into the laundry room. Left were the washer and

dryer, and the next wall held a bedroom door. The room had carpet and

wood paneling. There was a big window on the wall straight ahead and a

closet in the corner of the left wall. The wall dipped to hold another window.

There was a lamp in the bottom right corner to complete a vibe of being

more north of where we were.

Pass the furnace to the right and cupboards to the left, up three stairs and to

the right was a full bathroom. There was a toilet and bathtub to the right,

and a counter to the left with a mirror above it. There was a bar to hold

towels we would come to never wash and a tiny mirror that was another

hiding place. After the bathroom was the kitchen, refrigerator straight

forward and a counter soon to hold a microwave to the left. On the next wall

was my spot in the house: the sink. At least there was a window above it

Continuing down the counter was the stove, and in the corner a kitchen table

that held a radio and five-disc CD player among an assortment of papers and

random junk. To continue left was the living room. Stage right was the

double front door which held a full-door closet and on the other side cubby.

Another door stood hiding another bedroom: Baby’s. It had a window on the

right wall, and a closet on the left. Down the wall and behind the door was a

locker-style cabinet. He loved it. Half way up the stairs was a window that led

to the roof above the laundry room and back bedroom, flat and perfect for

exploring on. Up the second half of the staircase was an entryway room that

lead to the last door, where my wife resided. The first thing I asked about the

house was about that back room.

“So whose room is that and can I have it?”

And as soon as I asked, I received. Baby moved in that week, and I was a

month to follow. Everything looked perfect, and from there, it continued to

get better. I was going back and forth between the new house and my

parents’ house because I didn’t have a driver’s license and I worked a block

away from my adolescent home. I would wake up, go to work, get off, go to

my wife’s, go home, sleep, and do the same thing the next day. I would get

picked up or dropped off and spend my day either with my wife or cleaning

until she got home or people came over. Imma was still in high school and

didn’t have a car, so she borrowed her step-mom’s or got a ride as often as

possible; until, of course, my soul mate became her personal chauffer.

We smoked a lot of weed and cooked and baked everything with weed oil.

Complete and total highons. We chain smoked mentholated cigarettes and

didn’t give much of a damn about anything happening outside of this new

home we were creating. It was becoming the new hang out spot for the

various groups of Ram’s and Cultville kids. And I lived there. I gave her fifty

dollars for the month of April because I was already starting to bring stuff

over and I wanted her to know I was serious. Rent was going to be $250 plus

utilities when I actually lived there, and she didn’t expect money until I did. I

guess it’s the kind of person I am, though. The school semester was coming

close to an end and all I needed was my license to officially move into the

house. Until then, I was there every night with the people I’d been spending

all my time with; smoking, drinking, and sometimes doing lines of various

forms of Molly. What a dirty, lying whore she is.

My wife threw money down with Baby to purchase a sheet of acid on

Bicycle Day, thus beginning the acid binge that lead to the drug trafficking

that opened the Gates of Hell in a house in the Hills of Suburbia. My wife

later confessed to me that in hopes to make money, she took $600 out of her

back account and never saw it again. But before life was bad, everything was

always phenomenal. I suppose that’s what acid does to you. Bicycle Day was

our first family holiday. What better way to celebrate than to rip the sheet

up? We wanted the first trip in the house to be just the family. We wanted to

strengthen our newly formed phamily bonds and become acquainted with

our new home. Or, Becca and I did, anyway. We figured a trip would be the

perfect way to do that. But we were never alone in that house. We had some

time to ourselves to explore the mostly empty house and fill each room with

love. We got lost listening to electronic noise and watching patterns of

colours explode into new patterns of colours. We ventured out on the rooftop

and up the house. We found ourselves sitting in circles on wood floors to

feeling the popcorn walls of the staircase and painting walls downstairs. We

measured the house and it fit just right. It was perfect. Becca and I were

falling in love with the house as it was because it was to hold everything we

had ever dreamed of. We were starting to fall in love. We were so excited for

life to happen.

There was also enough time for two door handles to fall off in my hand: the

bathroom and my wife’s room, where Imma found time to find out that my

soul mate and I were not blood-related. This is probably when she decided to

not like me. We had enough time to scare ourselves of what things may lurk

in the small closets of an emptied house. We ran downstairs to a room full of

people. The problem with trying to be the only ones celebrating Bicycle Day

is that there was still a sheet of acid needing to be sold. There were people

in and out of the house all night. It was a first visit for many, and probably

wasn’t their last. The other problem was that Bicycle Day is April 19 th. All of

our friends were highons and every last one of them wanted to be in the

house at midnight to begin the first 4/20 this highon had gotten high on.

Most nights in the house are a blur, simply because there was so much that

happened so quickly. I remember listening to Sublime when the date

changed and everything you could imagine being in rotation all at once. I

remember giggling to my wife about how we don’t much care for celebrating

4/20 when it was still Bicycle Day. I remember the house becoming too

crowded and leaving the extra people inside as our family stood under the

tin pavilion out back. I remember when it rained. It poured and never really

stopped. I remember thinking it was a good excuse to not go home. I

remember hearing the magnificent crashes of thunder and the jaw-dropping

scene of electricity striking the Earth.

Acid makes you feel at peace with the serene scenes around you; full of an

invincible love for everyone you know. Naturally, this “love” is often

manifested in a physical form—the idea of “free love” that was apparent and

mocked in the 60s. I feel the word “free,” especially in a situation as such,

can be somewhat misinterpreted. I suppose, in a certain respect, everything

can and is misinterpreted somewhere in its course of existence because we

do not all have identical brains and certainly not the same beliefs. The

problem with people and hippies is the negative connotation thrown at

hippies by people. We are mocked by this concept of “free love” for being

dirty, slutty, and easy. Did you ever stop to think that you don’t know how it

might feel to be on acid? That we simply have a love that exists in us that we

ignore in sobriety and becomes uncontainable as we trip away? We choose

to let this love inside of us free and we do it in a way common to mankind:

sex. A trip is a twelve-hour lifetime, and sex is a part of the cycle. It is an

alternate reality that can teach you a lot about reality, or even bring up the

question and sometimes an answer of what reality truly is. You can learn a

lot from expanding your mind in the ways you do under the influence of LSD.

But maybe we are just horny teenagers on drugs. It would really depend on

your reality. Either way, a co-ed commune is always going to have some

raging sexual tension and frustration of hormones and testosterone.

Rewind to April and we’re happy living in a house with a sheet of acid.

Charlie Sheen was the current icon of fucking shit up, so we shouted many

“Winning!”s as we began getting everything we wanted. We had a house full

of people with a sheet of acid, mentholated cigarettes, booze, and weed with

all sorts of pieces to smoke it with. We were good. We didn’t always have

food or money and we never bothered with cable, but we seriously didn’t

give a fuck. The best part about that house was not having cable. We were

feeling like Charlie did—kind of infinite? We were young and beautiful or

whatever they say, so we craved the thrills and chills of life. Nothing but that

house mattered to any of us. Oh, and Baby’s job. We cared about that.

I really wanted that life to last forever.

My wife may have never seen her savings at $600 again, but I assure you

she saw more drugs. Some of the people living in that house had little to no

experience handling, dealing, or consuming drugs. But that’s exactly what

they were doing. And this attracted many established drug handlers, dealers,

and consumers… Very, very fast. The greatest downfall of or key to success

for the house was, I truly fear, dubstep if it wasn’t simply myself.

The next night or the next week and the next night after some other night

we took acid, Imma and my wife had locked themselves in Baby’s room and

wouldn’t let me come in. I immediately knew what they were doing. If you

don’t know what they were doing, the answer is drugs. They both knew I

wouldn’t be happy with this decision because I had been making it clear

since Baby and my soul mate decided to start selling Molly to be very careful

of not doing them. The temptation to do a line or eat a tab is much stronger

when you don’t have to go further than the room over to get it. These girls

hid from me because they knew I would not have approved. I assumed it was

thought up by Imma, who felt no remorse; and was carried out by a guilt-

ridden my life. Once the deed was done, they let me in. Of course, there was

nothing I could do but take one, too. If you can’t beat them, join them? I

don’t know, I knew it wasn’t a good idea, and I didn’t want to necessarily do

it, and they didn’t pressure me to do it because they tried to hide it from me.

They never could.

The problem was that some of these kids couldn’t handle themselves on

drugs and I could. They would run out of things to entertain them, or not like

the way their body felt, or would find themselves knee deep in some serious

shit…

I took the acid so I would have the love and patience to look after them for

the next twelve hours. To handle their shit and still enjoy myself at least a

little bit. I guess I was nineteen, too, and a mother of five or so, and this was

the best way to do it. More people came over and more girls took acid, like

some Parliament-grade hippies and ma momma. It was a “Ladies’ Drop”. We

listened to My Girls by Animal Collective a lot. Whoever was there sort of

laughed at us and let us trip away, but my soul mate had school in the

morning and didn’t want to sleep. Imma didn’t like this because she wanted

him awake. She bothered him a few times and eventually crept off to my

room in defeat. I sat and talked to her.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” I always called her Baby Girl.

“I don’t know, I feel like something’s missing, like. A part of me is missing.”

“Aw. You mean [my soul mate].”

“Yeah,” she giggled. “This is the first time I’ve taken acid without him.”

“Well, I’m his twin sister. So I guess I’m like the next best thing?”

I put a smile back on her face and we were either found by my wife or

returned to the living room. I think this was the night we tried to watch Super

Troopers and the movie was restarted and fast-forwarded and re-round

multiple times so we gave up on it. Baby put his crazy new visualizer on his

giant computer screen and we got sucked in and lost. I couldn’t come up

with any sort of relative time frame for just how long, because that’s just

how lost we were. Your eyes become glued straight ahead as you lay on the

floor or sit on the bed and the music is mesmerizing and it’s the coolest thing

you’ve ever seen because suddenly, the whole room is the colours of the

screen and the patterns break the container of the box they’ve been bound

to and take up the space surrounding it. It was a complete sensatory

satisfaction, an effective short-term brain distraction—some longer than

others.

After we had all been cramped in Baby’s room for however long we did, my

soul mate popped in the doorway.

“Imma!” I pointed to the door in excitement. She looked up at him. Her eyes

returned to the screen. He went back to the couch.

“Do you know who that was?”

“Yeah.”

It always made me slightly uncomfortable when Imma looked me straight in

the eye. I found her to be impossibly adorable most of the time, but then I

would catch her in acts of straight bitchery. I was really weirded out about

what I had then witnessed. She had just been complaining to me that my

soul mate was sleeping and she didn’t know what to do without him, but now

that he woke up when the living room has cleared out and wants to have a

minute alone with her, she’s too busy looking at a screen?

Suddenly, I couldn’t be looking at this screen anymore. The room was

making me want to vomit. The lack of productivity that comes of watching

graphics nearly terrifies me. And I was even more uncomfortable by it after

witnessing what Imma had just done. I was beginning to notice how hot I

was. I could see sweat on every last face in the room that was holding more

people than it was meant to hold. I had to get the fuck out of this box. What

better place to escape to but the roof?

I never remember exact detail, but I’m pretty sure somehow, my soul mate

and I ended up on the roof alone together. I don’t remember much being

said or if we talked about the way we were feeling about Imma, but I

remember being on the roof with him. Of course, when I was spending time

with him, she comes along. Suddenly, she was not so busy. I was polite,

regardless, and gave them some alone time. She may have been rubbing me

the wrong way, but I figured if my soul mate liked her, I liked her. I don’t

remember what had happened the rest of the night. I’m pretty sure it may

have been the night Baby realized I was a girl.

When I say I’m a boy, I mean it. My best friends have always been boys who

will accept me as a girlie boy. Baby was one of those people. His phone rang

when he was eating and I was sitting next to him, so he said, “No homo,”

stood up and asked, “But will you get my phone out of my pocket?”

Everyone laughed and I did it and it was funny. Honestly, I appreciated that

mentality towards me because it was true. What really got me was the fact

that he later stood over another man that lay upon his bed to test how

sturdy it was… But didn’t no homo the penis…

After a year of being nothing but friends without the slightest interest or

inclination, I suddenly found myself ending a psychedelic day in Baby’s bed.

He told me he wanted to see me naked. Because we had a prior agreement

to a No Clothes Necessary policy in our hypothetical house, I didn’t mind

undressing for him. Not to mention, I have always given Baby whatever he

wanted.

“What do you think?” I asked him of my naked body, out of curiosity.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he answered in response to my hair.

I smirked and didn’t correct him. He locked his door and we lay on his bed,

nose-to-nose. It was sort of strange. I find Baby attractive, but I have never

been overly attracted to him. I would guess he felt the same way about me.

It was confusing. It was my Baby, but all of this sudden, he was a good-

looking, twenty-year-old boy I was naked in bed with. His eyes cyclopsed and

the smile on my face began to feel a pull of gravity from his lips. So I told

him.

“My lips feel like they are being pulled toward you.”

“Ooh. That’s a good thing?”

So we kissed. Just once, first. We pulled away and didn’t know what to do but

try again. Tongues became involved. When we pulled away a second time,

we gave each other funny looks and I began to laugh. It was Baby. He went

in for another round of brief making-out to be laughed at again. We rolled

around, back and forth lips then laughs, hands roaming, hearts beating fast,

confusion tossed out the window. Suddenly, he was on top of me. Suddenly,

it was no longer “could happen,” it was happening. Baby and… Baby were

ready to rage in Lolly Land.

But they didn’t quite get there. They were distracted by the future of hip

hop. Before he could actually get inside me, he came on his bed between my

ass. Not in my ass. Between it.

“Oh my god. I am... So sorry. That’s never happened to me before.”

“Well, at least it was me and not some random rave girl.”

“Yeah… That’s very true.”

We laughed some more. Suddenly, someone was at the door. Our clothes

were back on and I left.

Either the next day or just the next trip (which could have easily been the

next day), Baby was in the shower. We hadn’t talked about what happened,

but I figured there were no longer boundaries between us because we

experienced the most awkward and uncomfortable situation the two of us

could have been in. I walked in the bathroom. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was

already naked.

“Lemme get in there, I have to shower.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Fine, tell me when you’re done.”

As I turned for the door, he popped his head out of the shower. I turned back

to him. His eyes were wide and his brow was furrowed. He extended his arm

and grabbed my face, pulled me in and kissed me. The water dripped off of

his face and into my mouth. He pulled me in. We stood under the shower

head and he watched his hands flow down my body. He trapped my head in

his hands and our lips connected, my mouth filled with liquid and his tongue.

“Hey. Calm down. You have a bed for that. Let me shower.”

It could have been very romantic if it wasn’t Baby. I reminded him that I had

said if I had more money, I’d be his sugar mama. I mean, I took care of him,

anyway, I might as well have gotten some out of it. This time around, he

made it. It was fun, too.

Anyway, I recognized the use of drugs being slightly on the excessive side

early on. There was one morning Baby and I stayed up until the morning

because he was rollin’ face so he decided to continue to roll face into the

next day. I did a line with him at some godly hour because I didn’t ever have

shit to do so I didn’t need to sleep. By ten a.m., I watched my wife take a fat

rail, without permission, of what little Molly was left to sell—money Baby

really needed. She rolled about her morning.

It worried me because these were not rave kid drug addicts at this point.

These were my best friends and the people I lived with. A lot of people saw

the house for what it truly was—not the safe haven I dreamed of but rather

an escape or, if you want to go to the extreme, trap house. Even though I

was asked numerous times during my stay why I was there for the reason

that the interviewer believe I was too good to be there, I couldn’t give up. I

adopted them as my family and I couldn’t abandon them. I didn’t have a job,

I was just the housewife. The mother. I was the only one who actually cared

about the people inside the demons at present. While my true friends shook

their heads in shame, I held onto the hope that I could help. I could change

what the world around me was and make it better, but I couldn’t. I no longer

had my best friends. I was a car that could get them around. I was the

dishwasher because there was no machine. I was there to clean. And

occasionally I cooked when there was food at the off times people were

actually willing to eat or I brought home leftovers from my family gatherings.

I didn’t just take care of the ones that lived in the house, either; I took care

of the guests who were drinkin’ too much or trippin’ too hard or rollin’ too

far. There would be the occasional night I was under the influence among the

rest of them. And honestly, probably more than occasionally.

We continued to go to raves every weekend and inviting new people to sit in

the ever-changing living room after we were kicked out of the Works or

wherever else we found ourselves. We knew that there were plenty of kids

fucked up on drugs that needed a place to be—so we took them in. I met

some of my best friends this way. It was constant people in motion, coming

through the front, out the back, up and down. The house got trashed in a

matter of minutes. The activity was endless, as the traffic never stopped.

There was always someone calling or showing up or needing to be in that

living room, staring at the Grateful Dead poster that claimed souls and

covered the living room wall.

We collected a couple ragdolls and baby boys and opened the doors to all

the misfit toys scattered throughout the tri-suburban area. We created a safe

haven from reality but also held the check to it. We cared for all and any that

entered, even though we have been victims of cold-hearted sons of bitches

who will never know the concepts by which we lived. Peace, love, unity,

respect. We seemed so different, so strange because we lived by different

rules. We lived like we were meant to: young, wild, and free. We, to a certain

extent, disregarded specific guidelines we’d been legally handed to follow

because we do no harm in tossing them out the window. We wanted to

experience. We were learning. Some of us changed. All we asked is that we

were left alone. We did not disturb (or mean to disturb!) anyone that did not

wish to be a witness to what appeared as madness.

Dub/tech Sandwich was the first night we invited people back to the

house.

“Make me a sandwich, bitch. A DUB/TECH sandwich.”

This was the first night I can say the house was completely out of control. It

was the second best rave I’ve ever been to, probably. The night to follow was

pretty fun, too… For everyone but me and my wife. There was one point in

the night she was laying in my bed telling me she didn’t want this to happen

to her house. She didn’t want to be the party house. She didn’t want the

drug house. She wanted people to come to her home. She wanted a happy

home of highons, not the feigning world of demons that had so suddenly

spawned. She felt like she was dying, and that scared her because she did

not want to die that way, in my bed, with all that chaos, under the influence

of drugs.

She knew the Cuntsack was her problem.

Imma was always the instigator for their secret consumption of drugs and my

wife knew that. I knew that. But I begged her not to kick her out that night. I

begged her to give Imma a chance because she was my soul mate’s and I

begged her to give him that chance. She was on her last string, but she

complied. Problem is, it didn’t get much better.

In May, my manager at West laid me off in the most unprofessional manner.

The girl whose job I replaced was back from school and she was taking my

position. Instead of telling me this, I showed up to her and got a text the next

day telling me not to come in. Way to have a dick, bro. It’s not like I put

hours of all kinds of service of all different positions for a quarter of what you

would have paid anyone else. My face would have been a nice decency. They

taught me all the good shit I know about business. I can understand the

business decision. A coulda been real with me. I still have mad love for that

place, even after it, though. I mean, it went out of business a month later,

anyway. It was my favourite while it lasted, though. And I met so many

people that I’ll never forget.

I was happily unemployed. I worked far more than what I was paid and still

had money in the bank. I got my license and moved into the house full time.

I was to remain unemployed the rest of summer and I lived off of what had in

the bank and became a full-time mommy. Rather than being what I could

consider a part of reality, the PLURhouse felt something more like a time

warp. Very soon, though, my time warp was interrupted by the greatest

show I have ever seen.

THE FLAMING LIPS, DETROIT: THE NIGHT I MET WAYNE COYNE

I knew the Flaming Lips were coming to Detroit, but I hadn’t been financially sound

enough to buy a ticket. I had seen them; I didn’t need to see them again. I thought

to be economic. That Friday the thirteenth, just an hour before the show, came to

the house to sell me his ticket. I offered it to Baby but he wanted to sleep. Ten

minutes before we left, the kid that was going to go with my ex sold his ticket to my

wife. So we ate a tab each and were on our merry way.

It wasn’t until we were half way to Detroit that I found out my wife and I had tickets

on the floor. I wouldn’t have worn flip flops if I would have known. We anxiously

waited in line, where I suddenly couldn’t imagine myself not being there. I was

comin’ up pretty good. I could taste whatever I had in my mouth, so I’m not so sure

it was acid. Either way, it worked out because I wasn’t trippin’ too hard but it was

just enough. We stood around waiting ever-so patiently for the Flaming Lips to

begin. Having good opening acts give us said patience. The longest stretch was

those minutes between Sean Lennon’s band and the Lips. I had my tambourine in

one hand and my shoes in the other, front stage right. That’s my spot. And then it

began.

Though I can’t tell you anything about it. Sorry.

It’s just something you have to witness yourself. I will tell you that I’ve never seen

anything like it. Of all the hundreds of performances I’ve seen, there has been

nothing like this show. You think you’ve seen and heard some trippy shit until you

see the Flaming Lips live. It changed my life. I can only say that about a select few

shows but this is definitely one of those shows. And I have to say, it was my

favourite. It wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for Wayne. Totally. If it weren’t for the

explanations that came with each song, or the tears of others, it wouldn’t have been

half of what it was. If he didn’t care to come meet the people who came to see him,

the people who came to see him wouldn’t much care to meet him. But he’s such an

awesome dude. He asked my name and signed my fuckin’ tambourine and let me

play with his hair and kiss his face and all he really wanted to know was about Lolly.

“Is that who you are right now or is that who you are?”

“It’s who I am.”

Here I am. After that night, I only introduced myself as Lolly and not only when I

was at raves. After slowly growing to question my existence, love, humanity, drugs,

my beliefs—everything—Wayne Coyne seemed to have answered all the questions

in my head without me having to ask a single one. I imagine most of the crowd that

night felt the way I did. I at least hope they did. I know that chick climbing over

people to reach the stage did. There is no feeling that could possibly match the

energy of the Flaming Lips. For that I am forever grateful. And for that show, I would

not trade the world.

Meanwhile in the time warp, things were still going in the direction my wife

and I had discussed we had not wanted them to go.

We put up with a lot. There was constant cleaning to be done, someone to

care for at every moment, people with places to be and only me to get them

there, and a need to be around as much as possible in case of emergency. I

would get anxiety when I was away from the house too long because I feared

the worst. Every paranoid thought in my brain came out and took off about

all the possibilities of what shit could be going down when I wasn’t there.

And when it would go down when I wasn’t there, it never went as well as it

could have. I didn’t benefit much from all the work that I put into the house.

So proposed the question: Why? Why did I do it? It was simple for me.

Someone had to. I have a great amount of patience, even if it doesn’t always

seem that way. I have witnessed things most people in this world will never

have the chance to see. It’s interesting. It was always interesting. And I loved

it. I loved being the communal mommy. It is just what I am here to do. There

would be so many Lost Boys if it weren’t for us. And my love for each and

every one of them was enough fuel for the fire to keep burning. But after a

while, no amount of fire or passion could keep me there. Things happen—life

happens. And life bitch slapped me in the face.

Didn’t Shakespeare tell us there is a method in his madness? There was a

method to what we did. We provided curious hearts with pure intentions of

simply living to do things in the right way. We taught and educated and

prepared to the best of our abilities—as you would a child—and sent them off

into the world. Or other worlds they could choose to explore. And they

always knew where to turn when things were not precisely how they should

be because they knew they could. They knew when they had no one to turn

to, nowhere to go, nothing to do, no way to live, they could come home.

They could always come to their secret world in our home. It was the

greatest comfort to all of our friends because it was something hard to come

by—the magic of that house. The peace, love, unity, and respect in that

house. So many beings out there forget those finer things in life. But inside

the front door and through just one more, or around back where the door

didn’t stay closed unless it was locked, it thrived.

The energy of the house was constantly moving, pumping corner to corner,

keeping its guests entranced in its walls. Those who came back were the

ones that felt the energy. You could only feel it if you had it. Positive

vibrations radiated off every surface in every room and the people that

occupied those rooms had to be able to keep it going. They had to keep it

alive. We couldn’t let the compassion for human beings other than ourselves

go down with everything else that seemed to be heading that way. We had

to keep it alive. We kept it alive. Peace. Love. Unity. And respect. Our only

goal with any of it was to spread an idea. The idea that we can all exist

happily when we stop and consider one another. But when we “considered”

people, it really meant we spoiled the shit out of them. It’s just the way we

were.

The keyword in the monologue is “were”. Hell, I said monologue. A stupid

bitch convinced me to believe she wanted these things, too, but she is just

another drug addict in the world. One I couldn’t live with but most certainly

can live without.

As my first year at college was closing, I was knee-deep in Detroit Rave High

School and loving my throne atop the Candy Kingdom. I think the only thing I

can honestly say I took from that year of community college is my

psychology class. I had the most legit professor I’ve ever had. That and

sociology. That woman was one of the greatest I’ve met to this day. But my

Psychology class made me realize how much I really do love the human mind

and how much of a psychologist I truly am. If I do go to college, I know what

it will be for. But nineteen was not a good time for me to be in college.

Twenty doesn’t seem to be, either. But I’m glad I went when I was eighteen. I

needed a little direction. With my need to explore the other world and

resilience to settling, I needed someone to get through to me. I would have

completely fucked my life up forever.

I decided I was going to drop out of college and write a book if I failed my

math class. I was looking forward to living among the rave kids and not

having a care in the world but all the love I needed. I disregarded a lot of the

information given to me on my small Suburban campus aside from

everything I was taught in my psychology and sociology classes. The one

piece of information that was absolutely crucial to my development was from

my psychology professor.

“Acid doesn’t do anything your brain can’t do on its own.”

I couldn’t argue that. I loved it. It sort of became my mission to prove it

because it was something that sounded exactly like how I felt. Perhaps that

is why I stopped hallucinating when taking psychedelics. I allowed my brain

to overpower the drugs I would give it, in a way. I wanted to further my

exploration on the subject because the one thing I had never changed my

mind about was that acid makes an incredibly useful tool for therapy. I was

now out to combine what I knew from a psychological standpoint with my

expanding knowledge of illegal substances in attempts to eventually figure

out a way to rehabilitate with the use of drugs. My experimenting on the

theory didn’t exactly go as planned, however. It never does. The only way to

really explained what happened is pretty bitches ruined my life. But in the

end, it’s always my fault because I let them.

Imma intentionally made me feel unwanted and I to this day cannot fathom

how one could do that to someone that did nothing but try to love them. It

started one of the few days I decided to go out and look for a job and spend

time with my family. It was a Wednesday, because I went to dinner at my

grandma’s. I was at my parents house most of the day. They really enjoyed

seeing me, mostly to hassle me about my life. At least I had a plan to go visit

a bitch at work to fill out an application in hopes of getting a job. They didn’t

actually have any, and I never actually got a job there. But she gave me a

free sub. I appreciated all donations life had to give. I stopped at the Dollar

Store and did some pathetic grocery shopping: bag of pasta, can of sauce,

bag of animal crackers, and a bottle of ‘Zona green tea. I finally got back to

the house, excited to be home and to see my phamily. There was no one

home when I first arrived. I was in my room when I heard someone come in. I

went into the living room to find my wife and Imma. The vibes in the house

were off. They felt very standoffish to me. I sat and ate half of my sub and

they announced they were leaving again. They didn’t mention where to or

how long they would be gone. I rolled it off. Probably no more than five

minutes later, they returned. Trip to the gas station—not unusual. However,

shortly after that, they left again. This time it wasn’t for five minutes. I

retreated back into my room.

As time passed, I heard the house fill up. I wasn’t in much of a mood to talk

to anyone. I was uncomfortable with the way I had been treated, so I figured

I would just retreat. I sprawled on my futon mat nude in the dead of night,

my iPod playing the words of Peter Gabriel and Eddie Vedder among others

singing the thoughts in my head. I typed my short stories and was calmed by

the crickets and other hums in the darkness of a summer night. I noticed the

bitches knocking on my window, calling my name. I gave them a look and

resumed typing. Ten seconds later they barged in my room—also naked—

and stated they needed my help.

“With what?”

“Living.”

They disappeared to the backyard. I followed out of curiosity. I stood in the

doorway staring at two children playing naked in a mud hole. They had the

Crazy Daisy sprinkler out, too. Apparently, my dear friends had snorted some

2-CB that evening. They didn’t want to tell me this is what they had been

planning on doing, but it didn’t go well for them. They were having a hard

time dealing with the brightest colours one could see at night while any

waste in them seeped out midst sweating their balls off. It wasn’t until they

didn’t know what to do with themselves that they wanted my help. Why

anyone would think they could treat me like dirt and then expect me to kiss

their feet and make their world better is beyond me. My best advice to

anyone is to treat others the way you want to be treated, one of the few

things I did learn from Catholic school. So maybe you should think twice

about being a bitch before you’re a bitch to the wrong bitch.

I slammed the door in their disc-eyed faces.

This night sparked a two-week breakdown in my room. I felt betrayed by

everyone I knew. I would venture out into the living room later that evening

and throughout the next two weeks and it didn’t seem anyone cared either

way. Eventually, I stopped leaving my room. All I ever want from people is for

them to come and talk to me, or show me they still care. I guess it is all part

of being a schizophrenic to be paranoid. I was beginning to think the world,

or the house, was turning against me. I had written a letter trying to explain

to Baby just how much I care about him and how I felt like I didn’t mean shit

to him because I noticed he started treating me like complete shit ever since

we fucked. It did nothing but anger him. The few interactions I had with my

soul mate during this period were very negative. I couldn’t handle being

alone in such a crowded house. These people whom I considered my world

suddenly seemed to no longer want me in theirs. I continued to stay locked

in my room, crying and typing because I didn’t know what else to do. After

two weeks of this and an awkward mushroom trip in a rich crack head house

with my husband and his Obama boyfriend, I finally talked to the one person

who was always there for me, regardless of what anyone else said or did: ma

momma.

It was nice to have someone that put people before themselves like I do. She

listened to the whole story. She listened to my stupid theories and my crazy

ideas and she not once got angry. She didn’t laugh at me, she didn’t turn

from me. She listened. And it helped. Having a friend really helps.

My wife eventually came in my room and we talked. We made up. We made

promises of forever that I could keep but she couldn’t. We were in love

again. Or we were in misery.

I think I knew I wouldn’t last in the house since Electric Forest. It was that

weekend I realized these people I devoutly referred to as my phamily would

never be who I wanted them to be, nor would they ever give a shit about me.

I supposed the “ph” was accurate.

I can barely remember what happened. Ever, you know? All I know is that it

was the first time in the year or two I knew ma momma that we fought. It

was the first time I was ever truly mad at Baby. And it was when I finally

admitted to myself that I sort of despised my wife. I thought our family

vacation could mend some broken bones but oh, no. Bones are too

important. You break it, you buy it. Because that’s what we fought about.

Fuckin’ money. I was the only one without a job, the only one paying full rent

every month, the only one not buyin’ and sellin’ and DOIN’ a bunch of drugs

and yet everyone was coming to me with their money problems. Bitch,

please. I wasn’t trying to spend my grand in the bank but I guess you’re

gonna do it, huh? Thanks a lot, friends.

I wanted to take them on this family vacation to the Double JJ ranch thinking

they would have been where I had been. The thing was, I was seventeen and

at Rothbury finding the Dead Head people saw in me throughout my life as

they watch me try to figure out who the fuck I was and unaware of the

Grateful Dead. But they are all rave kids. I thought that they felt the same

way we did about drugs, and I say we in reference to Jerry Garcia himself:

I think basically the Grateful Dead is not for cranking out rock and roll, it's

not for going out and doing concerts or any of that stuff. I think it's to get

high. To get really high is to forget yourself. And to forget yourself is to see

everything else. And to see everything else is to become an understanding

molecule in evolution, a conscious tool of the universe. And I think every

human being should be a conscious tool of the universe.

That’s the difference between hippies and rave kids. Sure, we both like to do

drugs, but we do them for different reasons. Or it is at least the conclusion I

came up with from what I gathered as a part of both cultures. Who am I to

say? I wasn’t born until 1992, what do I know? But oh, how I wish I would

have been there, in the 60s. I’d pass on the 90s rave thing. Though, I think if

I could see any concert ever, I’d probably pick Peter Gabriel Secret World

Live. Then a Grateful Dead show. The rave culture came up with PLUR to

identify with the effects of the drugs they do, in the same sense that country

musicians pride on drinking beer and country music listeners enjoying beer.

The moral value of PLUR is not really there. Because they only get half-way

through the quote.

To get high, to forget yourself, to see everything else. They like to take drugs

to put off reality because they live lives that don’t matter or that they

essentially don’t treat with the respect they may preach. People get lost in

the everything else, the drug itself. The things you may see or feel or believe

under the influence and they want to see the everything else at all times.

They just want the drug. We, or he and then I, took it a step further. In a

sense, it was like using evil for good. We saw the same everything in a

different place and we wanted to be a part of it instead of just enjoy it as a

pleasant side effect of a substance put into the body. Ultimately, the goal

with acid for people with the same basic moral and understanding of the

ways of the hippie culture was to connect with the music as the musicians

do, which eventually leads you to a very strong bond to the band and most

positive environment. In this, I found my happiness. My people. And

eventually, I was able to keep in sync with this appreciation for them and

love for our world when sober, or conscious, so to speak. It is the use of an

alternate reality to better your own reality and remain as happy as the you

are when the thing that changes the chemicals in your brain when they are

not in you. That’s why hippies had festivals and the rave kids raged every

weekend. We don’t need to be on drugs all the time to be happy, but we do

them at the family reunions, you know? Or perhaps that’s just me. At any

rate, Electric Forest was the takeover of the rave kids on Rothbury. They

drew me in with String Cheese Incident, but it was the biggest substance

circus show I’d ever seen. It was fun, but I was not happy. It didn’t feel like

home anymore. Coming home to our loving home was not the most pleasant

experience, either.

I left in Imma’s hands my car for the weekend. I handed her my keys, smiles

on our faces, telling her she could use my car to get herself to work and

back. How did this bitch repay me? How much did this bitch respect me?

Allow me:

She left trash in my cup holder though there was a garbage can on the

passenger floor

There was a lighter left in the passenger door

A bottle that sat in my cup holder holding a dried out sunflower was

now on the floor; the stem snapped

She used a quarter tank of my gas

Um, sorry, bitch. I’m gonna fucking mention it.

My wife had already wanted her gone and I was being pushed closer and

closer to wanting her gone. They had been making plans of renovating and

moving into the garage so that I could have their room upstairs and the Fire

Man could have my room, but they did nothing about it. They were supposed

to pay $100 a month, but never gave her any money. They spent most of

their time away from everyone and up in the room they weren’t paying for.

No thanks. Not to mention, what kind of girl dates a girl’s best friend and

then tries to make a move on the girl’s ex-boyfriend? Jesus Christ, how

fucking dumb do you think we are? As dumb as my soul mate?

False.

I came to my wife absolutely terrified of what these acts of my car meant. It

seemed so sociopathic of her, which seemed so schizophrenic of me. I didn’t

care. I wasn’t about to live with a bitch who would blatantly disrespect me

and my things and then smile to my face upon arrival. You bet your ass she

wasn’t smilin’ after I went to my car! That shit, in my opinion, is kind of

fucked up. I don’t fucking play games. I wasn’t going to live with a stupid

bitch that wanted to play games with me.

So, okay, I told on her.

I told my wife everything I had bottle up about her and when you are sitting

on the fence, anything will push you over the edge. Especially that shit. I

wanted to avoid a blow out, but my wife wanted the two of them gone

immediately. Imma and I had already been ignoring each other, but she

didn’t mention it to my soul mate until it was my wife that was ignoring her.

He confronted her about it. Asked my wife what her problem was with his

Cuntsack girlfriend.

So, okay, she told him.

This was the Spark That Bled. This was the explosion. Never have I ever

screamed in a bitch’s face so hard. I think she pushed me at one point and a

couple of dudes escorted me out. My wife was passed out on the bathroom

floor at one point; Imma threatening suicide. So much screaming at the top

of lungs. So much. I had never been so angry in my life but would someday

experience anger to a new extreme.

But that’s months from then.

Whatever, it was a whole bunch of drama because I didn’t want my soul

mate dating a two-face skank whore rave blob. Omg. Sorry you think she’s

nice. She’s not. Nice girls don’t do that.

And just as they came, they were gone. My soul mate was willing taken to be

held captive forty-five minutes away, where he was to overdose his soul and

forfeit to douche baggery. I wish I would have just moved out, let them stay,

and left all the drug addicts happily in their own atrocious oblivion. I’m sure

my wife is much happier to have kicked me out as well.

Then there was Christmas in July. Long-story-short: In addition to a plethora

of rave drugs and underage drinking, there was $400-worth of cocaine in a

room the police had a dog outside of.

That’s when I was done dealing with… Dealing. I don’t even mean just the

drugs, either. Shit was fucked—my life was fucked, and everyone was fucked

up. That was my lessoned learned. Having the police and their pets in the

house was my sign. I had plenty of signs from the Universe, but this was my

blatant slap in the face before I got popped in the jaw. But before I could do

shit about it, I was gettin’ curb-stomped.

After a month and half, if that, she was starting to miss Imma. She didn’t

even want to admit that in front of me, but I told her I didn’t care. She could

talk to whoever she wanted. It’s funny how that’s when things began to

change. After Electric Forest, I was off. I had never in my life had a bad trip

at a festival. Never. And coming home to that, coming home to such a house

made me feel like I was on that bad trip again. I already had moments of

ghosts and psychosis, but it had become uncontrollable. Everything I knew

was ripping apart at the seams because of money, drugs, bitches, and liquor.

Plus, I thought I was pregnant.

I guess that’s why you shouldn’t abort that baby mission, kids. It’ll fuck with

you.

Or maybe we shouldn’t make girls feel so guilty about their decision so that

they may learn or make peace with it.

Unless you’re a real heartless bastard and want them to suffer. Shit, man,

I’m human. Maybe a heathen human but a human. We’re only on this Earth

for some short, indefinite amount of time. Why do you want people to suffer

just because they broke one of your rules? Sorry we don’t all believe the

same things. Maybe you should take your face out of your ass and get your

head in space. Maybe you could understand me or anything a little better.

Or, if you DO abort mission in spite of what the God-fearers may say, don’t

follow that with binge eating and starvation with copious amounts of drugs.

That’s what I did, though. Because of all these great ideas about acid. I could

see I wasn’t the only one dealing with my issues. I always saw lysergic acid

diethylamide as a great self-analysis. But it appeared to me that the people I

brought acid were too caught up in their two eyes to see out their third. It

was a grave disappointment. And I think I subconsciously realized I couldn’t

have a baby in that house and it was my body’s way of telling me to get the

flying fuck out of it. There was something about that house. As a clear

believer in energy, I’m sayin’ there is some crazy energy in that house.

But it was my life. It was fun. I loved them. I stuck it out. And of course, I

didn’t have my conclusions during my experiment. I continued to have

ridiculous lazy days and wild nights that are still some of my fondest

memories. I learned rum makes me one happy pirate, and Admiral Nelson is

ma nigga. I’m talkin’ for life on that shit. Oh, my desire. My temptation, my

desire. God, I love her. I’ve been overwhelmed by her beauty. I don’t know

how else to describe it. I’ve sat next to her in her front seat, mad as hell at

this girl, and I couldn’t help but smile because I could just feel how beautiful

she is. It’s crazy.

She’s also the reason I’m all about the Admiral.

To strife of life, to fight with might; to stand back up and fill our

cup; to throw a punch to knock them down and fucking spit before

we frown: Cheers.

Classic Admiral night usually ended with girls at least half naked on the roof.

One night in particular, my desire and I smashed some the night before

going to seven-thirty a.m. mass in a hospital on a Saturday. Yeah. We fuckin’

went. Everyone doubted us but when you make a promise to the Italians

involving God, you fucking keep it. I hooked up with my flower girlfriend that

night and I don’t think either of us slept much. We didn’t have weed so we

scraped a bowl and smoked a fat resin ball followed by mentholated

hundreds. Aunt Bad Ass of the family called us out immediately upon our

arrival. Hey, at least she was laughin’.

I loved having cute girls around all the time. Those nights someone let the

animals out of the zoo with all those ‘whine-o’s on the loose, woo! Those

were some good ass nights, man. My room full of fairies almost brought the

Locos-wasted Fire Man to tears because we wouldn’t let boys in. It was great.

I’d never kick him out of a room now. No way in hell I’d ever let him go

again.

Not that it was my choice in the first place…

The weekend I refused to tagalong to Bass Camp made my realization about

the drugs and the house a month earlier a reality. They came home

completely burned out after the three days of the most fucked up all of them

have ever been. A few days went by and the vibes I once felt, the love that

once ran this house, was gone. It was lost. One night after I had so long

pretended to be happy, I sat on the couch pushed into the corner by the

stairs and I wept. First, silently, but soon enough, unable to quiet myself.

Unable to stop neither the tears nor my mind and unable to move my body

or produce any words. I felt so trapped and stuck exactly where I was, on the

couch in the corner, surrounded by my best friends. They ignored me. I

somehow found the courage to finally reach out to my wife—or so called. Oh,

my life.

FUCK IT.I could not speak but I finally got her next to me. I tried to write to her, but

my hands were so shaky it was illegible. I tried to type but my fingers danced

on keys to avoid the words I had to say. Finally, we end up in the bathroom. I

was on the dirty white tile, she stood above me. I told her what was wrong;

she told me she would not help me. I asked for someone who cared. She told

me no one cared. She told me to shut up and figure my shit out. I guess

people don’t always know how to react to things like that. I am more

unstable and closer to insanity than anyone any of them have ever seem to

have dealt with. But if you saw your best friend having a breakdown, a

complete and utter and obvious breakdown, what would you do?

Just as she said, I need to figure my shit out. I just have a hard time with

reality, with the world around me. It isn’t that all I care about is myself, I just

live in my own world because I don’t fit in with the one around me. But I

don’t like having to live in “Lolly Land” necessarily. I would prefer to live on

planet Earth with all the other Earthlings. I want to have fun and be human

but I feel like all I am is a tool of the Universe. I am a mermaid. I live under

the radar in my submarine and I live my life as I wish because I am a little

discontent with the way things are and I have accepted that I can’t do

anything about it so I just try and live around it. Most people are here but I’m

nowhere to be found. I can’t stay happy anywhere so I just stay locked up

with my head most of the time but that just makes me sad a lot of the time.

Whatever, really. I know it’s never all that bad but sometimes it just really

hurts while it is happening. I know someday it won’t matter but sometimes I

fear it will change my whole life. I’m lost in Lolly Land but I’m not doing so

well on Earth. It isn’t ego in your sense of the word; it’s just where I am. It’s

“schizophrenia” or paranoia but it isn’t because I think I’m the only thing that

matters. I have a hard time putting myself first but I’ve learned I have to. I

don’t think I’m better than anyone. I actually think everyone is equal. But

here, at least in America, people are concerned with being the best of

everything. I believe in making people feel good about themselves and

appreciating them for their talents or beauty, I suppose, but it has become

so over glorified. Everyone is obsessed with being the best but people are

awesome. I hate the ideas of social classes and stupid cliques and all these

things that categorize and rank us in the worst ways. I was kicked out of a

rave clique—the cool kids’ house. I was thrown below the poverty line. Truly

hungry, broke, and lonely for the first time in my life.

Before I turned twenty, I went through a brutal divorce in which I lost my

children, my home, and was left with nothing but my car. I was out of money,

jobless, and incredibly exhausted with nowhere to go but home because of

drugs. What is most ridiculous, as all I am do, is that I was not the one that

was on drugs. The worst thing in the world was the question, “Why?”

Everyone begged to know what happened. The problem was I didn’t have

much to tell them. I did the best I could in explaining the situation as I knew

it, but I felt pretty in-the-dark about the whole thing. At the time, it drove me

crazy, especially because the only reason I had was that I was crazy.

In retrospect, it happened because it was supposed to and that’s all there is

to be said about it.

Sometimes, I am completely baffled at how I get from one place to the next,

but it’s always interesting. I was so incredibly satisfied in the simplest ways

not even so long ago. We were happy. We were all happy. But then the

Cuntsack and my wife kind of ruined everything. Dr. Dre was on point in

saying bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks. People often asked me why I did

it. I was questioned as to how I put up with the things I put up with when I

was in that house. I think I can relate to Mountain Girl at 710. Life happened

in the house. It was interesting. I have no regrets of my time spent as a

residential rave kid in the PLURhouse even if she did break our marriage off

in a text message.

I tried to save us. Apologize, forgive, show desire to make up and move on,

but she denied me. She kept her finger pointed at my face and told me it

was all my fault. I wanted to pretend it never happened and start over; she

wanted to remind me of what I had done. Fine. My bad. As she said herself, I

was always there for her. But what she does not admit is that she was not

there for me, as she said she would be. It was unfortunate but true and I was

sad but then I just became pissed off. When a bitch done fuck up, she done

fuck up. Fine. I miss the life we had, but I couldn’t live that life forever. I’m

glad it all happened the way it did, because I had better things to do. I miss

my brothers, but if that’s the way it’s gonna be, so be it. She’s the one that

told me it all works out in the end. And if it doesn’t work out the way you

want it to, there’s always death.

***

I love the argument of disco—as if you can compare raves to discos. I get

that it is the same concept of doing drugs and gettin’ down. At least disco

was feel-good music and not mind-warping, brain-washing sounds. That

sounds pretty harsh, but I don’t know, that’s the way I feel after what I

witnessed. Granted, I didn’t witness the 70s or the 90s in discos and raves,

so who am I to judge? However, they didn’t have the technology we have. It

seems like they come out with new drugs on the daily nowadays! There are

all sorts of chemicals and compounds that I seriously struggle to keep track

of because there is such a variety of bullshit on our rusty copper streets.

Have there always been so many letters in our drug alphabet? Have you

always had so many ways to be up or down or in or out of your mind? Have

we always had such a dangerous plethora of such deadly concoctions

endorsed by mass media all over the globe? It’s almost like they are trying to

set us up for failure. It’s almost like they don’t want us to think for ourselves.

Because the shit is gettin’ kinda scary, wouldn’t you say? Or maybe I had too

much time to think. Maybe I’ve made myself paranoid of the world around

me my secluding myself from it as so. But if anything, technology has made

me paranoid. It is used to track our every move, entice us into evils, tempt

us into sin, and distract us from the point. With a combination of mind-

altering chemicals and intensely coloured lights, it would be very easy to

manipulate a crowd into doing, believing, or saying what you want them to.

Not to mention, there’s a tab on us at all times. Even if you don’t have a

fancy GPS-capable smart phone, you probably have a social security number.

You’ve probably been on a Control list for some shit or other. And if you

haven’t been, do you really exist? Technology enables the tabs to be tighter.

By putting our all on the Internet, we allow people to watch us at all times. I

wouldn’t much mind this if we were allowed to do whatever we wanted, but

we’re not. So what am I paranoid of?

Everything…

“That path is for your steps alone”

ROCK HOPPING

“I am stranger now amongst all of the recognized”

There was never a time I had no place to go, but this was definitely a time I had no place I wanted to be. The only place I ever wanted to be was in the house I created with this heartless bitch. I know I could have gone home, but if I had done that, I would probably be dead. I don’t mean that in a hateful way toward my family. They’ve never done anything wrong but they don’t know how to deal with me any better than anybody else, I included.

Plus, I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

That sounds pretty stupid because they’re my parents and they’ll love me no matter what and they don’t care what I’ve done but at the same time, how bad would it have sucked to hear that, man? Hey, mom. Hey, dad. The girl I called my wife kicked me out of her house because I had a mental breakdown but she made sure she got all the money she could get from me,

first. Oh, I lost my job, too, so I won’t be replenishing that grand any time soon. I’m gonna resume my breakdown but I won’t have any friends this time because I guess no one likes what you’ve created.

Ouch.

I chose to live in my car. It sounded crazy to the people who tried to take me in as a friend after I lost all of mine and shit, my life. Though there really isn’t much life at the Gates of Hell. I just needed to be alone and on my own to be able to figure out what, exactly, I needed to do. I couldn’t sit trapped at home to dwell on what a shitty person I was because some shitty people wouldn’t speak to me. This would have crippled me if I didn’t stay on the move the whole time. Life is much easier to live when you have to think of your survival, in a way. I had no money, no friends, no home, no job. I was left with nothing but my car, so I put all the junk I had in the house into my car and lived on the streets of Suburbia. And my breakdowns didn’t stop when I left the house. It was something like:

I need a little help being a body because my mind has completely over powered it. I need help deciphering the mental madness and the physical world I have chosen to ignore. Is my body calling out to my head or is my head controlling my body? A mental crisis embodied in a physical form? Or is it too the point that the body can no longer be ignored? I don’t know. It always seems to go away but it continues to come back. But only with times of great stress. So hard to interpret the real world. I’m too busy with the brain in my head. That is all that matters. Whatever you think or want or dream is yours. You just have to believe it. I suppose this is the ego. I have lost touch with the id. I keep its needs met but at a bare minimum because it doesn’t matter as much. I am in love with life and being happy and doing what I can to make others feel the same way because I haven’t always been who I am. And I can find the people who might need a reminder that life is a beautiful thing and they are a beautiful product of it but all they truly care about is not bettering their lives, s0 to speak, or but bettering the world as it is presented to them. Instead of wanting to reach out and spread a certain satisfaction they have with their lives with other that might need them, they will use you for what you have to make their physical world better. Brains and bodies, I suppose. I don’t want to believe it is that simple but the more time that goes on, the more I see the difference. I think. Maybe I should just be content with the world around me, but I’m just not happy here, living the way these people—these bodies do. Not to say that all bodies have no brains, that is not at all the case. But some of them use their brains to, again, advance in the place they are. And a lot of bodies have brains but suffer and struggle where they may land and continue to live not caring. But when you care, you can be so happy… But maybe there is no intelligence in what I say and it is purely the insanity. Maybe I should be on drugs. That’s what the government tells

us what to do. That is the solution most of the kids my age have. If you are depressed or you can’t sit still or if you act out, the solution is to put you on a drug. Why is the world run by drugs?

FACE IT.Thankfully, I was hired at a Coney Island shortly after this happened. It was a job I loved more than I loved West and I made four times the amount of money I made there. Granted, it was going from five bucks a five hour shift to twenty, but still. When you have nothing, you appreciate anything. I loved going to work. I loved having Greek salad and spinach pie and rice pudding available to me at all times, even if it took a while for me to be able to afford it. I loved the regulars that came in and wanted to get to know you, and I think they liked me because I wanted to get to know them. It really made my day to see people smile. It seems like the older you get, the simpler your happiness becomes. After a certain point, you don’t have much to live for except maybe going out to eat once in a while, or once a week, or each day. Either way, I loved it.

I loved that they may have not come to see me, but a lot of them were happy to. That’s enough to make me love my job, no matter how much it pays me. I wanted to make that experience they looked forward to in life an experience worth remembering, even if it was just my thousand-dollar smile. I guess when you haven’t got much, you haven’t got much to live for and if you don’t have much to live for, anything is enough. I lived for people who lived for Tini’s. And the only reason I lived is because my best friend and her Bank of Sympathy. I would have done some dumb shit like starved to death in my backseat or drove off a cliff asleep at the wheel if it weren’t for her, let’s be real. Sometimes, I wish she would have let me but she didn’t and I guess that’s why I’m writing this book.

God, I love that girl. I want to get her back for everything she’s done for me but that would literally require the world.

I most often slept in the Meijer parking lot at night and various parks during the day. I spent too much money at Caribou because I liked having a real bathroom and source of electricity to charge my things. Plus, breakfast and the best coffee? I pretty much lived there when I wasn’t in my car. I utilized this time to finish my collection of short stories I had started in the house. I dreamt of publishing it someday. That dreamed slipped from my hands when my last twenty slipped from the ATM. I ended up spending a lot of time outdoors because it’s free to be there. It was nice to spend some serious quality time with my Mother. I was a locked-up mother for too long.

I had too much time and not enough money, so I was on the look-out for another job or two. In October, I was hired by my first corporate restaurant and a month after that, another to follow. I worked three jobs six days a week and still didn’t have shit to show for it and still had enough free time to have regularly occurring breakdowns in my car. Ugh. Can’t win ‘em all? At least you can win any, bro.

I am so grateful for the Marlboro Boys. I would most certainly be psychotic if it weren’t for those whack jobs. I don’t know what I would have done without my Marlboro girlfriend, either.

During the week, I’d have a place of familiar faces to sit and get high and draw and type and it was okay with me. The weekends were practically torture. My friends were asleep early or out all night, and I didn’t really go to parties unless I was dragged by the Panda or some shit. I spent these Saturday nights alone in a parking lot or driving to the airport to see the lights. I never had a reason to do it, but sometimes, you gotta pretend like you can fly. There was something comforting about the availability of an airport, even though I wasn’t going anywhere but insane.

I spent a lot of time thinking, as always. I thought about my time in the PLURhouse. I thought about my life before it. I thought about trading all the good times in that house for all the times I had before it. I thought about my friends that were not the friends I once had and never could be the friends I wanted. I thought about what I had done wrong and thinking about it helped me realize I didn’t do much wrong, as my real friends had tried to tell me over and over again. I wanted to blame no one but myself for what had happened. I always blame myself first. I’m always the first to apologize because I know I’m hard to deal with. We all have problems. I’m no exception. I think people think I think I’m flawless but I am a flaw. I shouldn’t

exist based on the rules the human race has created. And when you think you shouldn’t exist, it makes reality very hard to deal with.

It is so hard to interpret reality when you live in your head. My paranoia of being pregnant was physically starting to pain me. In reality, I was just fucking hungry! I didn’t know if my body was finally stronger than my mind or if my mind was controlling my body. Everything is scary when you know what nothing is. But most people don’t experience this problem like I do, and so they don’t know how to handle it. Hell, I don’t know how to handle it. That’s the problem. I’m written off as insane and abandon. I can deal with the issues in my head. I have my own solutions—mostly to write. But when it comes to my being, my body, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to deal with other people very well. I don’t really take care of my body. Classic schizophrenic, I suppose. I tried to explain this to my wife, but she told me no one cared, so I shut the fuck up. Is it really my fault? Sure. Could she have been a little nicer about it? I think so.

After a couple months, any sadness I had was churned into anger. I wanted my shit out of that house and I wanted this bitch out of my life. The only way I could get in touch with her was Facebook. Ironically enough, the last message I had from her when we were still together was, “I promise I’m breaking.” Ha. Guess I broke first. This is what happens when you try to forgive a bitch for being a bitch:

“Can I come get my shit this week / weekend?”

Two days. No response.

“Listen, I'll go at a time no one is home or I'll bang on the door until I'm let in. I'm not trying to talk to you and be your friend, I want my shit back. And I'm going to come for my things at some point or another, but I'm trying to show a little respect and let you decide when the best time for me to do that is. So please don't make this worse than it needs to be.”

Two more days. Updates her job to a food court place in the mall I worked in. Still no response.

“[My wife.] Why do you still give a shit? This is fucking stupid. Everything happens for a reason and I've got all the reasons I need. You have no excuse to be mad at me or hate me or ignore me because really, this is your fault (though if you believe you DO have the right, fucking tell me why!). But I don't care. I was sad for about two days but now I'm over it because I saw this coming. Leave the high school bullshit for high schoolers and move the

fuck on. Don't you fucking realize that we could die tomorrow and this doesn't matter? I'd just really like to get my shit before it snows.”

Finally. A response:

“Lauren. grow up. I don't need this, and I'm sorry that I am not on Facebook every fucking day. The world, and my schedule do not revolve you. I'm sorry that you don't seem to realize this. What happened was NOT my fault. I didn't have the fucking break down. I didn't shut my closest friends out for three weeks while still living under the same fucking roof as them. I didn't go fucking crazy! Look in your fucking mirror and realize that I tried to do this so that we could still be fucking friends at one point. I'm sorry that you don't see it that way.You want me to be sorry? OK, I'm sorry that I took the time to make decisions for myself instead of waiting on your hand and foot, while working so hard to keep you sane. I'm sorry that I needed to put myself first for the first time in a long time. You obviously still hold a lot of resentment, and if you ever want the fucking ‘closure’ that you so badly seem to want, you need to deal with your fucking issues, and realize that other people have feelings too.

Your shit is in the garage.”“Oh, wow. Seriously?I messaged you multiple times because I saw you doing shit on Facebook on my newsfeed, so I thought you were ignoring me. And they only got nicer because I was trying to be civil. Because holding grudges and ignoring people and all the other bullshit is for high school. You're stuck in high school. I don't care about you. I don't want to be friends with you, especially when you think kicking me out and not speaking to me means we might still be friends? No. That doesn't make any sense and if you really believe that you're an idiot. Friends help friends through break downs. And you told me on your bathroom floor that no one cares. Well, of course I'm gonna disappear. Of course I'm not going to spend all too much time with the people I thought were my friends but don't give a shit. I'm glad I found out sooner than later because now I have friends that like me and not the things I can do for them like all of you. You never liked me, you liked my car. You liked my cleaning. You liked my connections. I never matter. I didn't care because I loved you all so much, I blatantly let you use me. I didn't care. Now, I'm sorry I ever made the mistake of trusting you and opening up to you. This is why I'm not friends with girls. I don't think asking you for help once or letting you buy me cigarettes was waiting on me hand and foot. But I have heard about the house since I've been gone. Sounds like you're really holding it together. Anyway, I'm sure you moved the stuff in my old closet into the garage, but did you get everything? Because I had shit in both front closets, dirty clothes in the laundry room, things scattered in the living room--not to mention my poster on the wall--and I'd like to get it all. I want to

be done forever. I should have listened to everyone when they tried to tell me what a bitch you are.”“I'm sorry you see it that way, and I know nothing I say is going to change that. Your shit is in the garage. I don't want to see you.”“You're not sorry. You've never been sorry for anything in your life because nothing is ever your fault. You don't have to see me. But if I know there are still possessions of mine in that house after getting my shit out of the garage, I'm coming in. Even if it means bringing a cop with a warrant with me.”“Ok Lauren. There is none of your shit in the house, and I promise you, you are wrong. Apparently, you never took the time to actually get to know me. I'm sorry you don't see it that way. I'm done with this. You should try to be too.

Your shit is in the garage, feel free to text [the Fire Man] when you are coming to get it.”

I never got my fucking poster back. I’m missing clothes and CDs and other random shit, but the one thing I needed out of that house was my poster. She claims her animals destroyed it. Unless she means the ones inside her, I don’t believe it.

I did some things in that house I know I shouldn’t be proud of, but I did things in the three months that followed most people would be outright ashamed of. Good thing I’m shameless.

When you don’t have necessities for life, you may surprise yourself with what you will do to get those necessities. To make a long story a short point, I let dudes fuck me for places to sleep. At the time, it didn’t make a difference to me. It didn’t happen every night, but it happened. There was once a dirty bed I had terrible sex in when all I wanted to do was sleep. I woke up to dick attempting to insert itself into my ass. I ended up sleeping in my car, anyway.

I usually didn’t have a problem sleeping in a parking lot. I prefer a bed to a backseat any day, but I didn’t want a bed of pity. I suppose that makes me stubborn. There would be times I was too paranoid to sleep. There was only once I think I had anything to be paranoid about. There was a car that spotted me in my parking space off to the side. It crept up on me; it pulled up slanted in a parking spot and faced my car from two lanes over. I stared at the car with my hammer in my hand, ready to fuck some shit up. The stare down was left in a stalemate and they drove off. Needless to say, I couldn’t sleep where I was.

I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so I went and parked my car outside of my friend’s house. I knew he wasn’t home, so I left a note on his car. I had finally fallen asleep only to be awoken by a couple dicks and some bitch with a fifth of vodka. Oh, how I loathe vodka. They woke me up and made me come inside. I decided to drink with them, because they wanted me to. The bitch that became ma bitch that night and I went out to fetch another fifth. We played Ride the Bus. That shit’ll get you drunk. After we were good and drunk, we played some strip poker. There was talk about “getting weird”. It wasn’t an idea I was incredibly keen on, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. Suddenly, we were all naked and I was having sex with my homeboy while his homeboy was having sex with his homegirl next to us. We were all really drunk. It wasn’t as awkward as that sounded.

I didn’t really want to do that, but it was done. Time to trade, boys. My friend backed out and said he couldn’t do it, so I thought I was off the hook. I guess if it’s a no, you should just say no. Homeboy to my right was now on top of me. I remained completely still and let him fuck me. All I wanted to do was sleep. I wish my drunk ass would have been less drunk and maybe it wouldn’t have happened that way. All I could think was how I didn’t want to be sleeping in my car. Hey, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?

I woke up drunk and naked with seven minutes to get to work. I showed up half an hour late and totally trashed. Bravo, you classy broad. Whatever, no one even noticed.

It’s a funny thing to pretend like you’re normal when you’re not.

I was never a Jill. I never wore a bra when I was Jill. I thought it was pretty comical, in a way, because I came to dance at the host stand and bus your tables. Nothing new. Work was so much fun when I had nothing to do. When Lolly hears music, she dances. It’s just the nature of the being. I can’t help it, I don’t care where I am. You can gage my mood based on the amount I dance, really. I guess it is my lack of shame. Excuse me, I express myself. Don’t mind me, I’m just self-expressive. I’m egotistical or something.

When you spend nights alone in an entrapped space out in the open, it gets pretty lonely. Maybe I’m just too weak. I mean, I went from a team to being abandoned. It sucked as it was but having to go through that time alone was even more painful and probably more harmful. But that’s what I had to do. I had to deal with myself because I knew no one wanted to try to figure me out. I had to figure myself out. I mean, I’ve had a pretty good idea who I am since I went to Rothbury. It’s only gotten more defined since then. But I had

to figure out my own issues with my own feelings, I guess. Yeah guys, how gay, right?

Fuck, too bad everyone can’t fucking admit to that.

Anyway, work was the perfect amount of socializing for me at that time. It was Lolly in disguise as Lauren, and that is the most tolerable Lolly because Lauren is sixty-five. Work was enjoyable because I got to hang out with people and people are my favourite thing, but I didn’t really have to talk to anyone about myself or anything because it’s just work so it was great, I guess, to be in high school again for a while. After my world had crashed, it was quite a relief to have found myself in a high school that liked me maybe possibly more than my real high school did. That was cool. When you have absolutely nothing to do, nothing to live for, nothing to show of your life, anything is enjoyable. That’s why I had three jobs and it was great because I was making money and not going totally crazy!

And there were just those people I needed to meet.

Black Jack is my inner-self a decade ahead of me. Norm is two. He’s dating the girl in me; my love and my true self’s desire. It was such a comfort seeing them or us so happy. They lit up my life in the dark times that were to come upon my arrival anywhere. They were my sanity. Black Jack was my sanity and absolute reality when the whole high school thing started to turn as sour as high school did the first time. While I was there, my life intertwined with Hooter almost immediately because she was the only one to appreciate my goddamn silverware joke:

“Is you rollin’?”“Bitch, I might be.”

I don’t think I actually hung out with anyone until I was living with my parents again. My mom asked me to move back in because of a brewing family drama storm, coincidentally the evening of the morning a cop woke me up at Meijer and had breakfast with my cousin.

Once I was back into my abandoned personal Hell, I started piecing myself a life. I was chillin’ with Hooter, which is how I met ma man. My life was swattled in Jacks and Jills and I was okay with it because I just wanted people to smoke weed with and a place to be. I guess I still didn’t love being or especially sleeping alone. It was almost worse in my bed than my backseat. I don’t what happened, but something did and the result was my stupid Jill getting involved with a stupid Jack. There’s no real point in talking about it

now, but my life was soon to be Fight Club; Roxy Paige as Marla Singer. No matter how badly I wish, I don’t think it’s going to end like the movie.

I was finally piecing my life back together. I wore heavy winter boots about my soul mate because he and Imma broke up which left him back in Suburbia. He still wouldn’t speak to me and I was still so sorry about the whole thing that was my honest mouth’s fault. After my dust has settled, he was the only part of that life I truly wanted back. He continued to ignore me like the rest of them. I didn’t know about his soul, though, or I wouldn’t have cared so damn much.

Meanwhile, love or lust or something slapped me in the face when I first laid eyes on Jack, who I would soon realize was Tyler. I can still remember the first time we held contact as we walked by, jaws dropped and left speechless. I still remember how it felt and how insatiably I wanted him and how I couldn’t even figure out why when he shaved his face. I became friends with a Jill I went to high school with but didn’t know then. When we started talking, she was missing her old best friend almost like I was missing my soul mate, so we instantly clicked being sad girls that smoked weed. At the time, all I knew of her friend was from my desire and a young Parliament girl from back in the day. I was sad for her, but thought he wasn’t exactly worth her time to be sad about.

As it turned out, she sort of had a crush on Jack and being so hung up about my dead soul, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I did, too.

Time went by and my life felt stagnant. I had a copy of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots in my car and it stayed on repeat throughout winter. It helped me cope with my life that was significantly more boring and lonelier than it was before. Listening to the album of Yoshimi’s battle gave me the will-power and life to fight my own battle. I was Yoshimi and Wayne Coyne sang to me to keep going and I couldn’t really listen to anything else because there was nothing else that could give me that kind of strength in peace of mind to keep going because I felt so exhausted with life. My pink robots seemed so insignificant and so easier to deal with upon listening to Wayne sing about the way I felt. It makes me feel a need to thank him forever.

I started washing dishes at Tini’s so I left Jack and Jill’s but I continued to party with the Jacks and Jills because I was spending time at ma man’s or wherever Hooter planned for us that evening. I was always DD because I smoke and don’t drink. I was spending more time around this Jack I had my eye on but also the Jill that had hers, too. I was still nervous around him. I am

always smooth as a mother fucker but I fumbled when he was around. I never wanted to look away but forced myself not to stare. The first party I saw him at, we ended up playing beer pong together and I have still not played as good of a game as that one. We won in ten minutes or less. It was sort of ridiculous how wonderful he felt.

I was sick of crying about my ex-soul mate and beginning to love my life in Jack’s box because he’s a Jack-In-A-Box at six a.m. with boys I felt like calling my homeboys. Even though everyone got drunk, it wasn’t often or at least many of them that got completely stupid. We played a lot of Euchre and smoked pot and it was a good environment for me to be in considering the condition my mind was left after my stay in the PLUR blur. And my Jack was inching closer and closer.

One night, he held me like he’d kiss me but I was scared and ran away.

I told Jill. I begged her forgiveness because I couldn’t resist him any longer and no amount of words was about to win anyone’s soul back. Jack made me not care about him, anyway. Maybe that’s what a rebound is, but I was really missing a best friend. Yes, we were soul mates. But his soul overdosed on ketamine when he was trapped in the Heights. I was content with Jack being my new best friend, because it seemed like that was the direction we were headed in, until he tried to kiss me.

The next night, we watched the X-Files. It was the first full episode of the X-Files I had ever seen. It was about a circus of freaks and it was creepy as shit but absolutely fascinating. I went to bed with him that night and weeks to follow. It was the greatest thing I’d had in a long time. I finally had someone I could be alone with. It was immediate comfort, immediate ease. It was all the things I needed and everything I ever wanted. I spent as much time with him as possible. I surprised him with food at work and brought presents for his home. I cleaned up before bed and we had amazing sex every night. Life was starting to feel good again. I was painting and loving and the only word I have to describe this time and this Jack is wonderful.

Oh, don’t forget, folks: My life is not wonderful. My life is ridiculous. And he wasn’t just Jack, he was Tyler.

After a while, I was starting to feel used by the people in my life, him included. He convinced me it wasn’t the way I felt so I felt okay, even though I was unsure. Only a week into March, I woke up in Tyler’s bed to a phone call from my dad telling me my Uncle was going to die. Of course, this was

not just another Uncle. This was my second father. This was the father of my other brothers and sister. This was the worst news I’d ever heard. I went to work and felt like shit. I got off work and wanted Jack. I got Tyler and all his dogs. But I’m an understanding soul and it was okay.

Then I got the call that it was time for last good-byes. It seemed fate was sealed. We had a nice car ride to the hospital, but the gloom overtook when we had finally arrived. All my family that loved him most was there, but one. Timing sucks.

When I finally got to see him, I sat next to his bedside and stared at what had become of my dearest Uncle. He had not moved or made sound for hours. He rattled to me. No words, no movement; just a rattle.

The week of his funeral was one of the most depressed I’d ever been and I didn’t really have a friend I was very close to at the time. I have and always will have my best friend, but we were on opposite schedules, as always. I didn’t have my Cat yet and my desire was still in high school. I wasn’t close with anyone I worked with and as selfish as it was, I couldn’t bring myself to be around my cousin. I couldn’t hide how heavy my boots were but I know it would have made her heaviest boots even heavier and to be honest, I didn’t want my boots to be heavier. It would have broken every bone in our legs. The only person I wanted to and had to be around was him. So what does he do but leave me?

I had enough time to finish my painting of my Uncle, at least.

It’s my fault because I was demanding and unstable and I lashed out like a spawn of the devil. God, I’m just the fuckin’ Anti-Christ, anyway. I scared him like I scare everyone else that’s ever known me or seen me freak out. But damn, dude. Don’t buy me a rose and promise I’m more than a booty call if you can’t make some alone time while I’m grieving about the Uncle you knew was about to die.

Fuck, man.

And when my broken heart wanted to move on, he told me his hurt because he didn’t want it this way.

So I forgave him.

Couldn’t tell you where that left us. Don’t know what we were or what we were doing. Doesn’t really matter, because just a month later my stupid broken heart was slaughtered with an axe.

For the month after my Uncle died, my Aunt was gone to a bottle. Their youngest child was brought to my home and he became like my own. He was truly a blessing to my life. It probably looked inconvenient to have been living in my parents’ house, working all day in Downtown Farm, spending all night in Jack’s Box, waking up to go back to my house to go to Hills, back to my house to sleep, and back to Downtown Farm. I’m glad that was my routine. It was irregular to my life and fit just right in my circus style of living. Plus, I needed that time alone in my car to be Yoshimi and fight my Pink Robots.

One relationship of mine among others was diminishing but some were growing stronger. Somehow, there is light at the end of our darkest tunnels, for the sun will always shine after it storms. If it weren’t for my Uncle’s death, it would not have inspired some life. I would have never found the calm to grasp during times I should crumble had it not been for my shattering actually breaking my heart and not just rocking my world. It moved me to love but I had to start pushing away. Not from everyone, though. I was done with Jacks and Jills and parties and people for the most part. I told my Cat he reminded me of my Uncle and our bond that was slowly forming over the course of the last eight months finally clicked. We connected and we have not broken since. We freak out but our friendship was growing invincible. I was reminded how important the people I had were, even more so than after my divorce.

We were often restless doing the same things over and over again. We drove around and smoked weed, ate food at our diner, smoked more weed, and went home. Spring was beginning to happen and things were already in the midst of change. My desire was so close to graduation. We just wanted warmth and freedom and maybe something more. She was sick of being tied to someone who wanted her for life at a time she was too young to know what she wanted in life. I had been there so I understood what she was feeling. I broke up with my HSBF. I encouraged her to break up with her HSBF and that’s what happened.

Turns out, he’s a psycho…

Coincidentally though I don’t believe in coincidence, Hero came back into my desire’s life as my Cat became more involved with mine. He was starting to

desire my desire and she couldn’t deal with Psycho being controlling and she was unsure about Hero even though she loved him for so long that she didn’t know what to do because oh my god, she was seventeen. High school drama, yo. It happens. It’s heartbreak and it happens. Better than never knowing love, isn’t it? But as we’ve seen, only to some of us.

Some two weeks after my life took yet another drastic turn, we took a walk down Sunny Street some school night because we were restless and mom always wanted her home early but she loved me and my best friend enough to let her take a walk with us before bed. We bitched as sometimes bitches do. We bitch about literally Everything as we always did, going nowhere with it. Wayne Coyne was following me on Twitter so I was all dreamy about him. My best friend was frustrated with the love of her life that just so happens to treat her a bit like Tyler treated me. My desire was confused about high school life and curious about life after high school. We were all desperate to love, in a way, because sometimes Death forces you to do that.

We walked down her dark and winding roads and observed that even though it was terribly dark and almost creepy, her neighborhood is absolutely gorgeous.

“I’ve recently come to realize I’ve always loved things that are Hauntingly Beautiful.”“You’re kind of Hauntingly Beautiful.”

We dreamt up that Tim Burton should see this neighborhood because it’s got his style and I thought my desire was practically a Tim Burton character as it was because damn, she’s pretty much Alice or Donna but a total bad ass. We talked about how something like a movie being made in a city like Suburbia would be exactly what everyone there needed, to maybe feel important for a moment or take pride in something. All the kids we know are total sad kids and their parents are pretty much just as miserable. I laughed about how Wayne Coyne and my brother should make the movie with Tim Burton because I wanted Wayne Coyne involved with my life and my brother involved with my schemes because he’s the kind of kid that will rule this world someday. I even told him about the idea and he was so against me being crazy and the Flaming Lips because he couldn’t see beyond the acid. [At first.]

“We just need a reason for people to come to Suburbia.”

I couldn’t even tell you how strange it really is to think about my life. People don’t ever pay attention to the little details I pay attention to and they think I’m crazy for caring about the details that seem so unimportant or completely miniscule when in reality, big pictures are created with fine detail.

It’s almost sickening how powerful our minds can be. Years before, I took the lesson of learning to watch what I say, but my brain has no filter and my mouth does not hold back. Plus, I really do have good intentions. I don’t mean to curse or mess with dark matter and I don’t want to do wicked things. I think things may come across that way, sometimes. I always struggled with this idea that my body was stifling the pain it felt from my brain unless I was stoned enough to feel it, but reflecting on conversations we once had so nonchalantly makes me feel like my brain reigns the dominate. Reality is the way you perceive it and I realized my pain. I manifested emotional feeling into physical pain.

The brain is the most powerful tool in your life, but you must really know what you want to use it correctly. I think I produce positive energy and I truly want the best for everyone all the time. I never want people to get hurt or be hurt. I want everyone to know what it’s like to be happy.

I could see that Psycho was not happy.

My desire had finally broken up with him but he wanted to continue to be with her or simply near her. I recommended she not speak to him much, but she felt so bad. She didn’t want to just ignore him but it’s so hard to get rid of feelings for someone you loved that you continue to look at. I knew that feeling pretty well. I think most of us have felt that way at some time in our lives. Some people simply deal with it better than others. Psycho didn’t know how to deal.

The next time I was with my desire down her street was not as pleasant as the walk we had before. This time, she had no intention of taking that walk. She came home to find Psycho waiting outside her house for her. She didn’t want him near her house so she walked away. He followed her, picking a fight with her, harassing her. She called me to come pick her up so I got there as soon as possible.

I pulled up to find her and Psycho in each other’s faces. As she came toward me, he continued to chase after her. She attempted to open my passenger door, but he was there to shut it on her.

Oh. Ohh, fuck no.

I opened my door and flew half way across the roof and at the top of my lungs with my finger in his face I asked him who the fuck he thought I was and why the fuck he thought that was okay and explained how my desire did not belong to him and even if she did how that still wouldn’t be okay and how he should never do that ever again or at least not in front of me and I loved him but no.

She got in my car and immediately cried.

“I can’t deal with this.”“Then don’t talk to him.”

I tried to pull away but he stood in front of my car. I turned around and we cruised with a bowl to calm the fuck down a little. I dropped her off in a slightly better but still shaken state and went home. Three a.m. rolled around and I got a text from a number I didn’t have in my phone saying, “I’m sorry.” It was him.

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again because that is not okay. She is not yours. You have to move on. I still love you and so does she, just not like you love her.”

“You should have just hit me.”“[Psycho]. I would never do that.”

It was probably one of the last times I saw and spoke to him. My desire was

trying to hang out with him less but he guilt-tripped or tricked her into seeing

him. His birthday was coming up and he didn’t want to be alone and he

missed her and was going to be leaving soon and anything he could think of

to keep her around. But now Jake was around and she really really didn’t

want Psycho around because she wanted to help Hero because she couldn’t

help Psycho. Psycho couldn’t help himself.

Hero needed a place to stay a couple nights. He wasn’t doing well with his

tragic Suburban addiction, but my desire always held him dear to her heart,

even when he was absent. Mom allowed him to stay with open arms the first

night. He slept on the couch in the basement. Psycho knew about it from my

desire because she didn’t want him to find out for himself and freak out.

Hero still didn’t have a place to stay, so mom granted the grace of one more

night on the couch in the basement but that was it. No more than these two

nights.

The morning of April fourth I had an incredibly strange dream. I was in a sort

of warehouse, but bigger than any other I had seen before. It was as though I

had fallen into this noisy, spacious setting I was unfamiliar with very

unexpectedly. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but I noticed a group

of people, so I walked toward it. On my way, I passed Hugh Laurie. It struck

me as very odd because I couldn’t figure out why Hugh Laurie of all people

was in my bank of subconscious faces because I don’t watch television very

often at all, and I have never seen a full episode of House in my life. As I

continued to walk, I noticed the group of people I was heading toward was

people I know. It was Marlboro kids. I saw one of my girls, so I thought I

should go say hi, but then I noticed Panda, so I decided not to. I veered right

to avoid the crowd—even though I always choose left—and was faced with

Wayne Coyne in the distance with open arms and calling my name. I was

startled that he was happy to see me, let alone know my name, but I went

with it. I approached him and we had greetings of long lost friends or

something and we sat on this big red couch that flew. It was like a magic

carpet ride, cuddling and giggling with Wayne Coyne, but a couch instead of

a carpet. It was great. I was having the time of my life: flying room to room

in a place I’d never been, passing strangers I didn’t want to speak to, and

enjoying all that is Wayne Coyne while doing it. But then I noticed someone

following us. Somehow, the entire world couldn’t keep up with us but there

was some creep in a Jason-style mask on our ass at all times. It was

absolutely terrifying, but Wayne Coyne didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t say

anything, because I was just rolling with the punches. If Wayne Coyne wasn’t

freaking out, I didn’t feel a need to freak out. We managed to get a couch

through a standard door frame and suddenly we were trapped in a room with

this guy that had a bloody chain saw. Wayne Coyne could no longer be

oblivious to this guy being there, but he still wasn’t freaking out. We faced

him as the couch crept back, my dreaming heart racing in fear, but Wayne

Coyne was still smiling. People began to come out of the warehouse

woodwork applauding, and in place of the assumed murderer were a couple

hot chicks in bikinis on a mechanical bull. My fear and confusion subsided

when I realized I was on the set of a movie. I went back to laughing with

Wayne Coyne until I reluctantly woke up.

I wanted to keep dreaming, because it was becoming so enjoyable again. I

wasn’t as happy in real life as I was in the dream, and I wanted to sleep

forever. But in reality it was 10:30 and I had to work at 11:00. I walked into

Tini’s with a great mood. I had a dream about Wayne Coyne! I had a smile on

my face all morning. And it made my whole day that much better. I had a

few tables and was told I got to leave at three instead of eight and it was

actually a good day.

Until about two o’clock.

That’s when I got a call from a Parliament girl. There was a text of an urgent

message to call her back, so I took a cigarette from my Irish queen and went

out back. She asked me if I knew why my desire’s house was surrounded in

caution tape.

I did not know.

But I sure as hell was going to find out.

A. S. A. P.

I immediately called my best friend and the game of Clue had begun. I went

back inside and calmly explained to my co-workers that my cousin’s house

was a crime scene and I had to go. There wasn’t much of a problem leaving.

I was going seventy down Seventh, my heart racing faster than it had in my

dreams. I had no fucking idea what was going on. All I knew is that my desire

was supposed to be at school, Hero stayed the night at her house, mom was

home, dad was at work, and Psycho was... Psycho. I didn’t really have

thoughts in my head, probably for the first time in my life. I did think to call

my Jill that loved Hero. Just in case. I didn’t have her number because of all

the stupid phones I’d gone through. I had to call Princess to get it. Of course,

I could not prevent this girl from freaking out. I didn’t know what was going

on, but I didn’t want anybody to freak out. I wanted to freak out, but I had to

figure it out first. The ocean is a dark place. I didn’t want to give it too much

thought because I didn’t want to think of the possibilities. Poor, sweet

Princess was in a panic because she would have never imagined this in her

life. I guess no one really could and we were yet to discover what had

happened. I suppose because of the police line, we knew someone was dead.

I suppose the panic was over not knowing who it was, because anything

could have happened. Anyone that slept in my desire’s home the night of

April third was now potentially dead. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad

news. I didn’t want anyone to freak out yet. But I had to call Jill.

I was driving down the winding road only a few blocks away from my

desire’s. I had to calmly explain to her that I didn’t know what happened, but

Hero stayed the night in a house that was now a crime scene. She hung up

on me. I pulled up to my desire’s and her street was blocked by cop cars. I

noticed her homegirls on the next street. I parked my car and immediately

confronted an officer. I asked them to let me in or tell me what was going on,

but they wouldn’t tell me anything. They wouldn’t let me see my aunt or

uncle or even let me know if my desire was alive. They asked my name and

for me not to talk about it. I walked away and sat curbside to the house with

the other two girls. After some time passed, a cop walked over and pulled

me aside. It went something like this:

“What is your full name?”

“.”

“Where do you live?”

“..”

“And how did you find out about this?”

“…”

“And where does she live?”

“I don’t know she moves around a lot.”

“Can we have her phone number?”

“…Sure…”

I could not see a point to the questions they were asking. It’s Suburbia. If

there’s police line around somebody’s house, this one Parliament chick is not

going to be the only one that notices. We ran through possibilities of what

could have happened: overdose, suicide, robbery, kidnapping, fleeing,

anything. Nobody wanted to jump to the murder conclusion immediately, but

there wouldn’t have been police line for anything else. My uncle’s truck was

gone, my aunt and Hero’s cars were still in the driveway, and my desire’s car

wasn’t running yet. The worst had happened, and it was now a matter of who

and who-done-it.

Jill texted me to let me know that Hero was dead. His best friend had told her

before the cops had told me anything, and yet they were asking me

questions about the last time I talked to my desire or if she was in school

that day or if my family was living or dead. Jill had given me an answer to

one of the many questions burning my brain, but also made me realize I

gave the cop the wrong number. I had a lot of extra contacts in the month of

April. He asked me to refrain from calling people. Again, I couldn’t see the

point to that. When something big or dramatic happens in Suburbia, it

becomes a social event. It is the talk of the town and the civilians are

relentless. It was not a secret that something went down at my desire’s.

Maybe if you don’t want the public to know about it, don’t wrap it in yellow

plastic.

An hour later, more of her homegirls showed up. They sat with the three of

us and we smoked Marlboro Menthols because one of us wanted to quit. I

had already quit, but I suppose once a smoker, always a smoker. This was

the first of many last cigarettes. All we could think about was our desire and

all we could talk about was how angry we were with the cops. We tried

making jokes to calm our nerves, like Psycho coming and killing everyone.

Ha ha.

“That doesn’t happen to people we know,” some hopeful young girl spoke.

Some left and others came. They immediately asked what happened and we

told them we were clueless. The artist had noticed Psycho’s car was outside

of the house. At that moment, the nightmare in my imagination was

confirmed. The jokes we made in fear were no longer fictional. It was

impossible to deny that Psycho had finally snapped.

Shortly after the car unloaded its people, a couple of boys on bikes showed

up. And walking down the street was a pack of party girls. The kids on bikes

volunteered the information that my desire had been taken out on a

stretcher earlier that day. Homeboy walked up to a cop and that cop told him

my desire was fine. In the midst of rumours being flung around this freshly

formed group of people, a woman in an SUV pulled up to inform us that her

BlackBerry stated that two adult bodies and one teen body were found in the

house.

So let me get this straight:

I get a phone call from a girl I went to high school with that was living down

the street telling me my cousin’s house is a crime scene and then I’m

interrogated on how she found out about it—which was because half of the

SPD was there? And even though I’m family, I’m given no information on the

whereabouts or well-being of my cousin or her parents because it would

affect their “investigation”, but they answer the first question asked by the

next kid to show up? And even though three of us sat outside of her house

freaking out for two and a half hours, no one thought to mention to us that

they had seen our desire alive that morning until there was a gossip circle to

inform? And even though the cops couldn’t tell us anything because of their

fucking “investigation”, some bitch that didn’t know anyone in that house

has more information found online instantly than I had from being at the

scene of the crime for three hours? I’m not allowed to call the loved ones of

those that were in the house, but you’re allowed to publish a news article

about it on the public Internet?

Well. Fuck every last one of you.

At that point, I was completely infuriated. If no one was going to tell me

anything I wanted to know, I guess I was going to have to find it out myself. I

crouched behind the two I had first found and whispered to them that I was

going to find my desire myself and asked if they would like to accompany

me. As we walked to my car, we were caught in the act of dip settin’.

“Where you guys goin’?”

“Home.”

“Oh, okay. Let me know if you wanna hang out later, love you!”

“We won’t.”

First stop, St. M’s. Of course our ten minute drive turned into twenty because

we live where they thrive on construction. I called my best friend who was

with my negative girlfriend and in the process of calling other hospitals. I

talked to my mom, because it’s better than hearing it on the news. We finally

made it to St. M’s only to find out she was not there. As we went back to my

car, the messages from Jill began.

“I want nothing to do with you or your family ever again.”

“Cool, you don’t even know what happened. You’re a stupid bitch.”

On our way to the next hospital, my best friend called to confirm she was

there. There was no speed limit in my mind, traffic was to be weaved. I had

absolutely no fucks within ten miles to give. Meanwhile, the words of hate

continued to come from Jill:

“I hope you rot in hell.”

“I’m sorry your old best friend that didn’t give a shit about you is dead, but

you’re an ignorant fucking cunt if you think this is my fault.”

“You greasy bitch—”

“—LAUREN,” my passeneger blurted to alert me to look up at the car in front

of me who was stopped and putting their blinker on. Oh, thanks for the

heads up. This is a perfect example of why I do not condone texting and

driving. It is dangerous and not worth the lives you may sacrifice. But at this

point, all rules were off in my world. I slammed on my brakes and, by some

fucking miracle, I stopped what must have been half a centimeter away from

this woman’s car. But in the same moment I had not hit this woman and she

turned safely into the parking lot, some dumbass rear-ended me. Fantastic.

The three of us were jolted forward as all the shit in my car played musical

chairs among itself. I got out of the car and immediately when to talk to the

woman. She looked slightly terrified, as though she felt that it was her fault.

“I’m so sorry ma’am, did I hit you? I think I came close but I don’t think I did.

My car looks okay, looks like your car is okay.”

“Yeah, I think it’s fine!”

“I’m actually on my way to the hospital to see someone and I kind of just

have to go.”

“I’m so sorry, go ahead!”

“I’m sorry, thank you!”

I threw her a peace sign as I walked away. She was very sweet. The one that

hit me, however, not so much. Few people in this world have seen me truly

angry. There have only been several pairs of ears that have heard me

scream on the top of my lungs. This boy was one of those people. I charged

at the driver standing in the road clueless.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking dumbass?”

“Why would you slam on your brakes in front of me?”

He had chewed up Cheez-Its in his mouth as he tried to defend himself.

Hungry, hungry highon doesn’t know how to multi-task.

“Because someone slammed on their breaks in front of me, you fucking idiot.

I’m on my way to the fucking hospital right now and I don’t have time to

fucking deal with this. You’re fucking lucky you didn’t smash my car. Learn to

fucking drive.”

“…Bitch!”

I was already half way to my car by the time he said anything, my middle

finger high in the air until we turned onto Eight Mile. The cherry on shit

sundaes: Retrospectively hilarious and absolutely ridiculous. We finally made

it to the hospital, where I found an uncle in the lobby.

“Hi—“

“So [my aunt]’s dead.”

“Oh.”

Another question answered. I had been ready to hear this statement about

any or all of those that were home, but I suppose I hadn’t been ready to hear

it like that or just then. I was gathering all information before I felt anything

about it. My adrenaline had been pumping since two p.m., and the accident

felt like a fat rail of coke. My Aunt stood and cried about not being able to

see our desire and my aunt she didn’t like being dead and told me more lies:

“The police said the Psycho tied up the Women and beat the Hero to death

and made them watch and then shot her mom and then shot himself and left

our desire all tied up and it’s so horrible, Lauren! They won’t let anyone see

her! I’m her aunt, I raised her and they won’t let me see her! Isn’t it awful?”

Yes. Very.

I have never nor will I ever feel the anger I felt that day. I had a new hatred

for Psycho that I had never had for anyone I have ever known. They put us in

a private waiting room. My Aunt kept crying and repeating herself, I was

cursing up a storm, and the other three were quiet. My Uncle requested I

stop cursing. My best friend and girlfriend showed up just in time to keep me

from freaking out. I apologized and left the room, because the cuss words

were not going to stop anytime soon. As I left the room, more people began

to show up. She couldn’t be seen, they couldn’t help, nothing could be done.

It was more people to freak out and I didn’t want anybody freaking out. I

showed them to the box they were permitted to sit in and continued outside.

I woke my Cat up with the phone call before he had to work. I wanted him to

hear it from me before the media. My mom called me back crying

hysterically about how she was so happy it wasn’t us and she is so sad and

you know, more people freaking out. I re-entered the lobby as my family

stormed the hospital. Time for a cigarette.

We snuck off to my best friend’s car and the homegirls got picked up

because they understood the uncontrollable chaos that was happening

around us. My cousin and her boyfriend showed up not knowing they knew

the Hero. I’ve never seen anyone look as pale as he did. Hero was like his

little brother. Small world, huh? Or maybe it’s just a small little Suburbia. Just

when I thought my heart couldn’t break anymore, it did. I started to feel

overwhelmed by everyone and everything, so I went to the bathroom. I

hadn’t eaten that day or consumed liquid since leaving work. It was a two-

minute rest in a room. I opened the door to find her boyfriend waiting outside

of it.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Oh, it’s cool… So. It wasn’t [Hero] like the one I know, right?”

“Yeah. It was.”

“Like, you’re sure? Tall, skinny, blond boy?”

“Yes. You knew they were friends.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

There were no words left to say. The slight glimmer of hope he had in his

face that it wasn’t the boy he knew was now completely gone and replace

with a look of absolute defeat. All I could do was wrap my arms around him.

It would be my first of many comfort hugs. You could not imagine the pain

until it happens to you, but it doesn’t seem to happen to many people. It

happened to an entire city, though. Everyone in Suburbia, at the very least,

knew of Psycho or Hero, if not our desire. For most of those people, someone

they loved was killed by someone they knew, or someone they knew was

killed by someone they loved. For a few of us, someone we loved was killed

by someone we loved. And on top of that, there was an army of badasses

ready to piss on Psycho’s grave and mutilate his dead body for killing the

Harley Queen. But no one aside from my desire will ever know the feeling of

having loved all three.

I went outside. After seeing the boyfriend a ghost himself, I wish horrible

things upon Psycho’s ghost. I sat with my ladies, completely enraged. People

were overwhelming. It wasn’t helping anything. It was just more reasons to

freak out. There were so many things going on around us, in my head. We

didn’t need a bigger audience. In retrospect, I’m glad it was people who

actually care about our desire and not just people that wanted to be there to

say they were there. One of the homegirls later apologized for showing up. I

did not accept her apology, because she had nothing to be sorry for.

Part of the reason it was so hard to deal with more people freaking out was

because no one knew the whole story. The story changed multiple times

while we were still at the hospital. Somewhere down the line was the

discovery of the axe. After hours of waiting outside her house and more

hours outside of a hospital, we still were not allowed to see our desire. We

were told her dad was to be the first to see her. I found that to be a sound

decision. The only problem I had with it was my freshly wounded Uncle being

interrogated at the station while his daughter was interrogated at the

hospital. Another problem I had with it was being told my Uncle was going to

be brought to the hospital, when instead, she was moved to the station. And

to the cop shop the circus traveled.

The ladies and I dropped off my car before going to the police station. I

noticed a cop down the street; thank you additional adrenaline and

unnecessary paranoia. I talked to my dad and gave him a quick rundown of

what was going down. I mentioned he shouldn’t talk to any cops, either,

because they weren’t being nice. He said he probably wasn’t going to be an

issue. Of course, it never was. We smoked another cigarette on our route to

Five on the Farm. A pack of us waited another hour in the lobby of the police

station. At this point, it was all over the news and my phone was beginning

to blow up. My Irish queen had texted me to ask how my cousin was.

“Did you see the six o’clock news?”

“Oh shit, my sister was telling me about that! That was your cousin?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god, no way! So that was your aunt that got killed?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry! Do you want to drink some beers and talk about

it? Or tequila! Tequila makes everything better!”

I got a good laugh out of that because even though I did not choose Jose that

night, tequila does make everything better. I appreciated her offer and

appreciated having her in my life even more. Even though she couldn’t do

much to help, she made me laugh at a time nothing was funny. She made

me smile when my world was ending, and for that she will always be my

fucking girl. I had another girlfriend blowing up my phone. Every time she

called I would ignore it and let it ring. After a few times, I started rejecting

the calls. If I didn’t called you, we aren’t speaking at the moment. It was not

really anything personal to anyone, but many people took it personally. I

didn’t want to freak out and talking to a bunch of people who were freaking

out wasn’t going to make it any better. So of course there was a small

dispute, of course over text messages. I was still very angry that my family

was still being kept prisoner from us, I still didn’t know what the fuck

happened, and I was still trying not to freak out. I didn’t need people asking

me questions I had no answers for. She got mad because she just wanted to

know if my desire was okay.

Okay? Watch the news.

The sun was now setting. It must have been seven by the time my Uncle

made of steel finally came walking through that door. He went outside and

the group bum-rushed after him. All he really said was that he didn’t really

have an answer to anything. All he knew was that his daughter was alive,

and he was alive. So they must live. As all of us need to. Shortly after he was

finally released to us, she was wheeled before us. Again, the crowd swarmed.

It was almost unreal. There were tears of joy and sadness, words exchanged,

hugs given. All that good shit.

My cousin and her boyfriend were going to see Hero’s brother. He was really

nervous because he was in shock and he didn’t know what to say to him.

There was a time I didn’t know how to deal with this kind of thing either, but

sometimes, you just have to. Sometimes, you have to realize that no matter

how badly it hurts you, other people are hurting, too. And some more than

you. When your biggest fears manifest in front of your face, do exactly that

and face them. There is nowhere to run but to your grave and many people

fear that more than anything. Even if you can’t think of a single word to say

to make someone who is grieving feel any better, being there with them and

alive just helps.

It is very hard for many to fathom how sensitive life truly is because we are

naturally afraid of what we do not know, and we don’t really know what

happens when we die, and that is very unsettling for those who love to live.

But when someone we love dies, it is hard to ignore the fact that it really can

happen to anyone at anytime. Many people would rather their life not

thinking about death because they don’t want to imagine their life being

over. This is why we have religion. People want life to go on forever, so we fill

the emptiness of outer space—all that darkness, the nothing—with a higher

power that will take us to another world when we’re done on this one. We

give reason and purpose to dying, though it is simply a part of life. With life

you are given a death sentence. It is the only thing we can be sure of being

alive. There is no way to know what will happen, but it is certain that it will

end in death. I’m not much of a believer in suicide for this reason, because I

think the only way to know if you like it or not is to let it happen. Sometimes,

it gets hard. And having accepted death as a part of life, I can’t say I haven’t

wanted to give up. But I never do. I might as well try and make the best of

the one I get. Unless, of course, there are more, which I personally do

believe.

I couldn’t have been angrier at Psycho for not living through a break up. My

desire and I have grown up together. I know her better than probably

anyone. I know how amazing she is. I know he would have loved to love her

forever, but she was in high school. They hadn’t been together for a full year

yet. She was seventeen. And she loved Hero more. She always had, but they

were never able to be together. Their lives finally synchronize.

Psycho was a great guy. He was loving, intelligent, good looking, charming,

and a truly good guy. There was no reason he couldn’t have found another

girl to love had he given life a chance. I know he had problems, but who

would have known a high school break up would have made him snap? I

loved him, even after everything that had happened the month before this

happened. I wanted to help him, but his desire being with him out of pity

would have not helped for long. It was best they were apart, but he couldn’t

get over a fucking break up. He felt the need to ruin her life because of it.

And as all of these people were staring down a disaster zone, so many

people he left completely devastated because a seventeen-year-old high

school girl broke up with him, I thought I would never hate anyone more than

I hated Psycho.

How could he have done this? Why would he do this? What the fuck was he

fucking thinking? What the fuck is she thinking? Is she thinking? Why her

mom? Why Hero? Why not just himself? What does it even matter? All I knew

was that I’m lucky she is alive and he is lucky he is dead.

But because she was alive, we had to live.

We hauled our newly crippled out to my best friend’s car. She sat up front

and the rest of us piled in the backseat. Before we could even leave the

parking lot of the cop shop, I awkwardly broke the ice and asked the

question on everyone’s mind:

“So… I don’t know, like, if this is an appropriate question and I don’t really

care either way but I was wondering if you possibly… wanted to… Smoke… A

bowl?”

“Yes, I want to smoke a fucking bowl.”

It was packed by the time we left the parking lot. We drove around some

neighborhood and got stoned because if there was ever a time we needed

to, it was that moment. Our cousin didn’t smoke because she was an out-of-

commission highon and my girlfriend only hit it once or twice because she

was a comeback highon, but the three of us were total highons. It also

allowed our desire to talk about what happened at her own pace while

literally moving in a forward motion. None of us had eaten that day, so I

called Tini’s for a to-go order. My princess answered the phone, frantic. She

was so relieved we had her, she wasn’t even that mad about our order. We

got to Tini’s and I went inside and had to tell them what had happened. My

princess was so sad for our desire. The cook was exclaiming that he had

seen them in there before. Tini couldn’t really comprehend what happened,

but she knew it was bad. Couldn’t believe it was “right there in Suburbia, oh

wow.”

We took the Greek salad, rice puddings, and free lemon rice soup courtesy of

my little princess to our new temporary home at our Uncle’s as an amazing

team of people prepared the crime scene back into a home. He was a really

good sport about this whole thing. He accommodated to us handful of

teenagers quite well. I’m sure it’s really shocking to see the full-blown circus

in times of major trauma at his age. I went home with my girlfriend to briefly

discuss with my family what had happened and what was to happen for an

indefinite period. I gathered clothes, paint, my laptop, and phone charge. I

suppose you could call them the basics. My brother came to talk to me first.

He, like me, was trying to stay calm. He was in high school, so this was a lot

different for him. His friend called him earlier in the evening, asking him if he

had heard about what happened on Sunny Street because he lives over

there.

“Yeah... That was my cousin.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

From that moment on, my brother was to be questioned as much as any of

us by the brutal halls of Psycho’s alma mater. He was the only one of our

relatives in high school while this happened. When your business is involved

with the six o’clock news, suddenly everyone wanted to be in your business.

This applied to my brother, though he was not as close with the deceased,

because he had to deal with the feeding frenzy face-to-face. We hid in our

Uncle’s living room as the people spoke.

My parents came home. The mood was getting worked up, so I kissed them

good-bye and raced over to the art supply before they closed. I spent half of

my paycash on canvases, paint, and an assortment of other things to

attempt to make my desire smile. Which was a seemingly impossible task,

but I did my best to do it. I parked my car on the yard like it was Christmas

Eve. My arms full of bags of teenage girl nearly gave our Uncle a heart

attack, but he did nothing but welcome us in. My desire was laid out on the

couch and there was family everywhere. I finally had something to eat—that

Greek salad began to vanish at rapid rates. The rice pudding was rationed

and shared among all the rice pudding lovers. My desire didn’t have much of

an appetite; not that it really mattered because she couldn’t really use her

jaw just yet, anyway.

All I could keep thinking is he's lucky she's alive and lucky he's dead.

I was just furious about the other two.

The family feeding frenzy left and soon our support group disbanded. My

saddest Uncle fell asleep in a chair watching television, the only way one

could sleep on a day as such. My desire went to the bedroom our Aunt and

Uncle once shared. We hadn’t shared this bed in years, some Christmas Eve

us “big kids” found ourselves atop a pile of coats. We talked a little bit before

our bodies passed out on us, exhaustion being the only thing to put us to

sleep. We could not speak of the fears lying within us of what, exactly,

tomorrow had to bring us.

Waking up felt good for about five seconds. I didn’t remember falling asleep,

so it was kind of like, “Oh, I slept. Nice.” Followed by the reminder of why I

hadn’t expected to sleep. It was the heaviest weight I have yet to bear. You

can’t imagine what it feels like to have an axe-murderer in your mind and

ghosts in your heart until they are there. It’s heavy, man. It’s a really heavy

thought. And I just felt guilty for how low I wanted to hang my head. I was

ashamed that I wanted to give up because I knew my desire was hurting so

much worse. This was so heavy on my body, she’s in an immobilizer! As

much as I loved my aunt, as much as I loved Psycho, as much as I wished I

could have loved Hero, she loved all of them so much more and so much

longer. I didn’t want to get out of bed. But alas, she was already gone.

I got out of bed because I had to. I found my desire slightly catatonic and

painting. Happy birthday, Psycho. Way to throw Suburbia into the ashes of a

Hell fire before you turned twenty.

I looked at food and ignored it for the moment. I went back to the bedroom

and made a few phone calls. I contacted a select few friends as well as the

only high school counselor worth talking to at Parliament. We talked about

conditions in which our desire could go back to school which resulted in the

ultimate conclusion that she probably would not be returning to high school.

I took a week off Tini’s and an indefinite absence from the Italian restaraunt.

My life was on hold.

Even though we didn’t exactly feel like being in public—especially my desire,

especially in Suburbia—staying locked up in someone else’s house for a

week straight would have made us just as crazy as facing the unrightfully-

opinionated world outside of it. Uncle was at work most of the day and

people, though in and out of the house all day, never stayed long. We still

had an over-whelming amount of food before us and little to no appetite.

She, of course, in too much pain to chew much food.

So to pass the time bound to a house that wasn’t our home whilst having no

obligations to anything, we spent a lot of time on the back patio smoking

bowls and cigarettes. What? So fucking judge me. We are breaking the law to

ensure our own sanity, so fucking put me in jail. Would you rather us starve

ourselves? Would you rather find us stoned or strung by our necks in the

bathroom? Go ahead, arrest me and take my meds. See what happens when

you separate an insane woman from the one thing that keeps her calm.

Sorry getting high is the only thing I have to look forward to in life. Whose

fault is that? At some point, I suppose it was Brian’s fault. But ultimately, my

dear dead-end society, I would have to blame you.

I promised this girl I would make this okay. How do you go about making a

double-axe-murder-gun-suicide okay for the girl that witnessed two thirds of

it? Well, I’m not too sure because I’ve never dealt with one and neither has

anyone else I’ve encountered. But I took it upon myself the day after this

happened to do whatever it took to make it okay. It was my only mission in

life to see this girl smile again. And now, I have to look her in the eyes,

immobilized on the back step and completely traumatized by the damage

her ex-boyfriend has done. You couldn't imagine the feeling of happiness I

have to have this beautiful warrior in front of me. I want to cry, but I won't. I

will later and never stop. Right now, I am the only person that would look her

in the face and not shed a tear. Believe me, I want to, but I can't. In a time of

the most haunting sorrow, you do not need grief. We are all grieving, but no

one is hurting like she is. I cannot give her my grief. I am overjoyed that she

is breathing; I want to be her relief. But what do I say? I know what she

doesn't need, but what does she need?

Hope.

When everything you know is changed in a moment, all you can do is hope

for the best. Hope was all I had to offer. We have to hope that the rest will be

worth being alive for no matter how badly we want to die. But now what?

"[My desire]... Everything happens for a reason."

"Let's hope."

At this point in time, all we were concerned about was making to the funerals

that were to be held Monday and Tuesday. The week wasn’t too bad.

Thursday brought us nothing but our own grief. By Friday, we had to do

something. There was an event going on at my best friend’s Detroit

University. It was an Indian celebration we knew nothing about, but saw a

video of the actual event of the holiday in India. This video included crowds

of people enjoying live music and throwing colour at one another.

Colour.

We borrowed a wheelchair from my desire’s grandpa and the five of us

headed for Detroit. We found a small group of people in a small field

surrounded by city buildings. We approached cautiously; for we did not want

to intrude somewhere we may not have been welcome. It didn’t take long for

someone to notice the awkward gaggle of young white kids with a

wheelchair. They smiled upon our faces and welcomed us into their

celebration. Colour (powdered pigments of colour) was spread across our

faces by the hands of friendly strangers. There was a large speaker playing

what sounded like a combination of new-wave electronic and Indian

traditional music. Everyone was running around, dancing and sharing their

colour. It was hard for any of us to hide the wide smiles these people had put

on our lips.

And fuck yeah, we went to Hash Bash the next day. The girl who everyone in

Suburbia recognized from the news needed to feel like a stranger lost in the

crowd. Part of me thought that would never happen. We find someone we

know everywhere we go and I think it must have been really nice for some of

her old stoner friends to get to see her after this shit because we were all

devastated for her, you know? Shit, let’s get high. I wanna get high just

thinking about it.

I kept busy that weekend doing paintings of two of the deceased among the

various activities we found ourselves in. We’d have okay days and long,

sorrowful nights. We did our best to laugh and stay calm. American Beauty

seemed to be the only way to describe the way we felt and every word we

thought. It became our world. We were surrounded by family for these days,

drowning in food and love. It was nice. It felt good to be comforted in this

way. It was kind of fun to live like that in the moments you could forget why

we were doing it. But it was inevitably going to end.

I kept it together to the best of my ability for the days leading up to the final

good-byes. Life was incredibly surreal, to say the least. There was a moment

nothing felt real. My aunt’s sister was coming down the stairs and I can’t

remember what she said but it sounded so much like my aunt I believed it

was her. I thought she was walking down those stairs and I honestly

expected to see her turn the corner and face me, it sounded so much like

her. I thought for this brief moment of impossible false hope that somehow,

Psycho didn’t actually kill her. I looked at her sister and felt the world shatter

again. It is something I am used to now. I know her voice, I know I will never

hear hers again. I walk barefoot over the broken glass of my shattering

worlds.

Monday finally came. I put on my funeral dress and we did the damn thing. I

gave his brothers a painting with lyrics to the Trapeze Swinger written in the

background. I didn’t know Hero was the Tallest Tower until I was there.

Those boys moved me; spinning young images of too young a casket. I held

it together for Hero’s funeral because I was very sad that he was gone, but I

didn’t know him. I didn’t feel right about crying in front of all of his loved

ones. It was really sad, though. I felt so terrible about what happened to him

and it was hard to look them in the face, in a way, because Psycho was a

friend of mine. So many dirty looks it hurt. American Beauty there and back;

there’s a reason Brokedown Palace is tattooed on her thigh.

You know, I call him Hero because he really died a Hero. The way I see it,

Psycho was going to kill someone that night. If Hero hadn’t been there, I

think my desire would be dead. And maybe my aunt would be alive, but my

desire would be dead. I think that. Maybe I shouldn’t think that. Maybe it

comes easier to think that because he wasn’t my friend. My heart goes an

infinite distance to everyone he loved. And to him; it would have to be

infinity to get to him. Even if I hate hearing it, I’m so terribly sorry I feel this

need to feel so sorry about the innocent victim in a selfish passion crime. It

wasn’t fair, but that’s life. And honestly, I think he understood that more

than most people—from what I’ve been told and what I’ve since learned. I’m

so sorry it had to be him, but I couldn’t tell you how happy I am that this girl

is alive. I think it would be an injustice to his Death to say that it was ‘her

fault’. He saved her life. If anything, he died for her and for that, he is my

Hero. I imagine he was a Hero to many in his life, but this is how he became

mine. I think I would rather die a Hero than a coward.

Plus, he’s a total momma’s boy. Don’t you believe in anything?

Tuesday was even harder. It was kind of hilarious to comfort other people for

five hours. I bawled my eyes out like a little bitch during the service.

Everyone did. It was haunting beauty if I ever saw it. It would have been

absolutely impossible to do this without everyone we know. I can’t stress

that enough. If it weren’t for people, there would have been more funerals.

Psycho’s was held at the time as my aunt’s was. None of us wanted to go,

anyway. There were some pissed off bikers that wanted to piss on the

fucker’s casket, so it was probably better we didn’t go because bikers are

our friends and family \m/

I don’t know, it was a long day and it was a long time ago. I don’t think about

her as much as the others because she really did everything she needed to

do on this Earth and then some. She proved herself the Harley Queen. She

kicked ass, took names, and regardless of every sin she ever committed, her

heart was Heavenly. That’s all I give a damn about. But if we’re all damned

either way, then we’ll all be together by the fireside. She loved Criminal

Minds and she was part of a real-life episode, in a morbidly comforting way…

I’ll smoke to that. Shit. You would, too, if it was you.

So what do you want to hear? The truth? Isn’t that the whole point of this?

The truth is, it fucks you up. We’re all fucked up. It’s a hard subject to avoid

when it affects every single part of your life but it’s hard to talk about what

nobody wants to hear. It scares the life out of people and I think it scares

them more when we talk about it. It was hard to live, to be honest. I’m being

honest. It was hard to live and I didn’t even see it fucking happen. We made

a Thelma and Louise pact, just in case we couldn’t do it anymore. Life wasn’t

any worse. In some ways, it was cool. She was done with high school and

basically allowed to do whatever she wanted, which is what she wanted.

She’d take her mother for high school any day, but life is not an option

without a bright side. We smoked weed in her sun room and listened to

American Beauty on repeat.

I picked up the habit of writing rap verses to channel my anger into

something of potential use. I liked the idea of becoming the future of hip hop.

O.G. Future Skool uh suhin’! Ha. I lived for wild dreams. Clearly, I still do.

Ain’t much else to live for these days. Especially because I went back to

Tini’s only to be fired by her son a month later.

Thanks, Asshole. You don’t like that I’m five minutes late every day? I don’t

like the way you treat the women in your life. Why don’t you try to love

something more than yourself and maybe Everything around you wouldn’t

be so damn miserable?

That goes for all you assholes and not just the ones I’m fingering.

LOLWUT?I found myself in full Jill once again but this time, I refused to be stuck at the

host stand. After a month, I had crazy written all over my face standing in

one spot like that. After a month, I was a waitress. And I’ll tell ya, I was the

best one there. I was just a shitty Jill because…

Working for corporate

America sucks.

Sucking the Man’s dick in hopes it will pay off—I’m not about that life. I’ve

never given such a bad blow job as I have to Jack & Jill’s.

After learning all I needed to know at West and nit-picked apart to be built

back together by Tini and Asshole, I have become the best damn waitress.

However, being a good waitress does not make you a good Jill. I was the

biggest, baddest Jill because I don’t sell any “Big Bad Jills” because I don’t

agree with the business practice of shamelessly promoting the self inside the

self. To explain:

As a Jill, there are rules you must follow. You are given a small card of what

to do every time you get a table. You must greet them within thirty seconds;

they must have their drinks within two minutes, etc. It doesn’t take a genius

to wait tables. I’ll be the first to tell you that.

Being a waitress doesn’t make you a

dumb bitch, but being a dumb bitch might make you a waitress.

Why does someone whose job it is to wait tables need a pamphlet on how to

properly go about doing it? Why are you handing out “vision cards”? Maybe

you shouldn’t hire people who can’t figure out how to serve instead of

wasting your time and money, and our resources, on bullshit cards that are

meant to teach us something we should already know. Not only is their

business run by a clock, but as an Jill, you are expected to sell, sell, and up

sell the fuck out of every meal you lay on the table.

When a person goes out to eat, I think they intend on deciding what they

eat. When a person is being severed, I think they expect to be served their

own demands. When a waitress pushes products on them, I think it more

often than not results in a smaller tip.

So, to recap:

Waitresses get paid less hourly wage, but are tipped in compensation

The hourly wage is taxed the same as standard minimum wage, but so

are the compensating tips

In order to keep this low-paying job in a multi-million-dollar company,

you must follow the rules

The rules are created to make the Man more money, but in turn loses

the lowest-paying employees some of what little pay they have

And I am expected to give a fuck?

I understand that I am stuck at a dead-end job because I am not in college—

and on the opposite end of the spectrum, there are those stuck at dead-end

jobs until they are done with college. I am told that I am stuck at this dead-

end job because I choose to be. I suppose, in a right, this is true. I don’t have

to be a waitress. I could go to college and get a “real job” and then I really

wouldn’t have to be a waitress. Well, I’m sorry. After a year of college, I

couldn’t see the point to going anymore. Is it my fault that I don’t agree with

the way things are done around here? Sure. You can give me that. But don’t

think that I will submit because I am told to, especially if you can’t give me a

reason I can’t find a loophole in.

I was trying not to speak to him but here we were once more as co-workers.

In a way, I was happy to be back at Jack & Jill’s for that reason. Even though

he sort of wanted nothing to do with me, I wanted him to be forced to see

my face. I’m a masochist and I sorely believe he’s a sadist. There were other

girls and I knew it but I didn’t care. It sort of reminded me too much of my

desire’s life. It was kind of funny in a way that was so funny it hurt.

I suppose after seeing the total darkness of rock bottom, I wanted to take

something good out of all the bad things I had just witnessed. I wanted to

believe in something that wasn’t real because I wanted something to believe

in at a time I wanted to die instead of deal with what had just happened. I’m

sorry. I don’t really feel that way now, but I wasn’t given much time to

recover. Which is fine, I didn’t need it. But goddamn, some patience would

be cool.

Only two weeks later was my twentieth birthday. I found myself an

unemployed college drop out that did nothing but smoke weed and cry. I

made so many promises to myself and so many people that I did not keep. I

had nothing to show of my life but the sorrow of others. Happy fucking

birthday, you’re a piece of shit. And then some girl wanted to complain about

the day she was having. Bitch, please. It’s not that I don’t love you, but

sometimes, I can’t even pretend like I care.

My girlfriend called me two days later and asked me to accompany her to

New Jersey to pick up an old friend that was going to be stranded there if she

didn’t go. We left two hours later and chain smoked cigarettes for thirteen

hours straight, arrived at some 4-million-dollar home he was staying at, and

took a long-awaited nap in the biggest bed I’ve ever slept in. We woke up

and spent six hours in New Jersey and chain-smoked thirteen hours back.

He merged right into our lives. He stayed with my girlfriend for a while but

then was slowly kicked out. He started staying at my cat’s house, but two

boys couldn’t share a room full of people. A month after we brought him

from Jersey, he was on his way back to Georgia. I know nothing in life is

permanent, but damn.

Even worse than my birthday was my best friend’s birthday a month later. I

actually got her a decent birthday present of clothes she wears all the time

and not even thrift store clothes. And my present? A phone call from Tyler

informing me he had Chlamydia! Woo hoo! I assumed I gave it to him,

though he tried to make himself look as equally guilty. If I gave it to him, I

knew who gave it to me. It was later confirmed when Tyler’s ex-girlfriend got

Chlamydia after sleeping with that guy.

But seriously, LOL

fuck my life LY!!!

I should learn to just stay in the car.

Later that night, I was drunk and hanging out with my former soul mate,

current douche bag. Shit once again got weird. And once again, I hadn’t

really wanted it to, but it seems like you can convince me of anything when

I’m drunk. To be fair, I tried to sleep off my alcohol so I could drive to Tyler’s

to wake up and go to the clinic together to be treated in the morning.

Instead, I was told I didn’t need to sleep and had nowhere to be with a hand

up my dress.

Needless to finish, weirdness. I stared in my cat’s face and laughed, but I

may have given a douche bag an STD. I told him to wear a condom and tried

more than once to push him off me. If he did get it, I can’t say I’d feel all that

bad.

Tyler and I continued to sway back and forth over stormy waters. We tried to

be friends, we tried to ignore one another; we tried to hate each other.

Nothing we tried worked because we never tried love. Well, he didn’t. I loved

him through everything. But he never loved me back. No matter how much it

seemed like he did, he didn’t. No matter how much he Burned, I was wrong.

He never loved me and he never will but I could not help myself. When

everything in life is bitter, hope is all to taste so sweet. He gave me hope in

something when I had no hope in anything. Regardless of how much I love

him, I truly despise him. As a hopeless romantic, I don’t think I can ever

forgive him of robbing me of love at first sight. Sometimes, I think he hurt

worse than Psycho because he’s still alive.

I still don’t go a day without thinking about what happened in April. It seems

like it has touched every aspect of my life, in a way. It’s hard to think about

everything when it all reminds you of the worst thing. I think the worst

reminder is cops, especially in Suburbia. Good thing I have to continuously

interact with people who completely botched the only murder scene they’ve

ever seen that just so happened to contain my loved ones.

When you have a lot of shit, you lose a lot of shit. It’s not because I’m a

fucking pot head, it’s because I’m a fucking hoarder. Well, as it turns out, my

license was part of “Shit I’ve Lost.”

I got pulled over for getting in the left-hand turn lane too early because

traffic was backed up due to construction, and I didn’t want some asshole to

fly up behind me while trying to go from one lane to the other in moving

traffic. The cop followed me into the turn lane and pulled me over in my own

neighborhood.

Cool, bro. I’m really glad you were here to catch me going fifteen miles an

hour down the middle lane. Can you tell me what kind of wound this is?

Gunshot or axe?

I imagine it’s pretty hard to tell the difference but I figure you must know

because you’re trained to use a gun so you probably know what the wound

of one of your bullets will look like.

Oh. You don’t?

And you want to write me a ticket because I don’t have my card of

information that is already in your computer?

Hey, maybe I want to write you a ticket for not releasing information to

family at the scene of the crime before releasing false information to the

media.

But shit, you’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten in that lane so soon.

He wrote me a ticket for not wearing my seatbelt, which I was doing, but

wrote on the ticket that I didn’t have my license. I thought I had thirty days

to pay the ticket but I really had twenty. Here comes my warrant twenty-one

days later.

Meanwhile, I broke my spleen. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. One of the

veins attached to my spleen broke or something. I was leaking, still kind of

leaky. I am actually very lucky it didn’t rupture and kill me by drowning me in

my own blood. I was on top of a hill with someone I don’t really know and I

hadn’t smoked any weed and I was upset about Everything and I couldn’t

paint anymore and I didn’t know how to explain the way I felt to a stranger

so I ran out of the gazebo and down the hill I stood atop of. I was probably

three-quarters down when the terrain beneath my feet changed and I was

suddenly airborne. I didn’t have much time to think. It was like, hey, I’m

about to fall. I’m falling. Don’t want to belly flop. Gonna tuck, tumble, and

hope for the best.

Hitting the ground felt so good. Maybe that sounds really sick to you, but

feeling anything feels better than being numb. It felt so good to hurt

physically for that moment Nature smacked me around. I don’t know why.

Maybe I’m fucked in the head. I was scrapped and scarred but I walked up

that hill with no major injuries that I could see. I felt adrenaline rattling my

core. There was nothing but a smile on my face.

Two weeks later, I was heading to Tyler’s when my stomach began to ache. I

didn’t think much of it until it became immobilizing. When I was in his box, I

couldn’t sit or lay or be any sort of comfortable. I felt like I had an ulcer. I ran

into a wall and completely face planted it and lay on the floor laughing

maliciously about how the pain in my stomach subsided to the tingling in my

face.

Shit was fucked. I lived with my mild stomach pain.

I got to take acid and see Roger Waters perform the Wall. Again! But I wasn’t

on acid the first time. I was in pain and my friends left for Bonnaroo for the

weekend. This was when I realized I had to break up with my depressing

girlfriend. I was trying to stay positive under all my negativity, but she simply

reminded me of every reason I had to be negative. I didn’t want it.

And only a year after we had been glued at the hip I was finally dealing with

the shit that consumed my car, I found a card of some of the dearest words

ever written for me that now meant absolutely nothing:

Lauren

There are few people in this world that mean more to me than you

do. When I need someone, I know you are there. Know that this is not

something that I take for granted. I would hate for that to change. You are

my person. You have the most Beautiful soul that I have ever had the

pleasure of knowing, and better yet, the honor of calling you my best

friend. My other half, my Penny Lane, my solid piece that just so happens

to be cracked around the edges. I love you, flaws and all, and I just wanted

to be sure you knew that. We may not have it all together, but together we

have it all. I’m lost without you, I can only hope you never forget that. But if

you do, I’m just in the other room, waiting for you to want to be reminded.

And with luck, a joint ready. Love you so much. Never forget.

<3 always

[My ex-wife]

Awesome.

I went to the courthouse to stand in front of a magistrate. I brought money to

pay the ticket and warrant so I could get my license replaced because I

didn’t think I could do that with a warrant on my name. I was told to come

back and stand in court with my license on my brother’s birthday. I went

over to the secretary of state with all my papers from the courthouse,

terrified but ready to have to explain my life and beg to allow them to take

my picture. Instead, they asked me no questions. I filled in the blanks, paid

nine dollars, and smiled for the camera.

I finally went to a doctor and he ordered an ultrasound. The ultrasound said

there was blood. It was coming from my spleen. I went to the hospital. Tyler

came with me. I thought he would do this kind of thing for me to show me

that he loved me when he refused to say it until I saw him texting some bitch

as we waited together to find out how dead inside I was. I died more. I have

two broken organs. I’d say it’s about half.

They wanted to give me an angiogram immediately. I wanted to go to the

Mad Scientist’s wedding, but they said this angiogram was vital and

absolutely couldn’t wait any longer. The idea was to give me a small incision

in the groin to go up and stick a cork in the crack of my spleen. They told me

if they didn’t do this, I might die from any sort of strain, pressure, or trauma

to my side. If I didn’t get this angiogram done the next day, I would be

risking my life with my every move.

So I missed this wedding for this angiogram and the shit didn’t even work.

Cool. Tell me I’m in a life or death situation and then fail. Tell me to “take it

easy” for six weeks after telling me I could die at any moment for any

reason. Scare me half to death.

But I’m still alive!

I did get pretty crazy being locked up in my room that weekend. Can you

blame me? The way they made it sound, I was sitting and waiting to die.

What the fuck kind of life is that? Not one I was willing to live, so I was pretty

close to killing myself. And the one person I wanted to see refused to talk to

me. Shocking. I’m sorry I was freaking out, but I was given a death sentence.

It would have been nice if someone would have told me I’d be okay when I

legitimately thought I was going to die because I was legitimately told I was

going to die. I’m sorry they scared me and I scared you. There are just those

times when life gets out of hand that I need someone’s hand to hold and I

have never felt so fearless in someone’s hand like I do in yours.

So maybe if all you wanted was your hands on some

bitch, you shouldn’t have ever held mine. Ever.

I returned to the courthouse when my license came to pay my dues. I was

leaving the state that weekend. I wasn’t about to have a warrant out for my

arrest and risk not making it to All Good. I was told the cost of everything

went up and I actually owed them even more money. No one asked to see

my license, even though that was why I couldn’t pay it the first time. I paid

for the warrant. I went back after All Good to pay the ticket. The price went

up yet again. Not like I pay taxes with the money I work to earn or anything.

Here, take a little extra for the trouble you’ve caused me!

I went back to the hospital the week of All Good for a check-in. It was getting

better, but wasn’t completely gone. I was told to take it easy for another six

weeks.

Well, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything of my best festival behavior.

Of course, that week, the holiest woman I know was on her death bed. I said

my good-byes with family around. It was all very nice and peaceful. I was

happy for her. I can’t imagine she wanted much more in life.

We went and saw Furthur the night before we left for All Good because we

never had the opportunity to follow the Grateful Dead, so we did what we

could.

The holiest woman died on my way to Ohio. My dad expected me to come

back a day early to go to her funeral. Not to sound like a heartless bitch, but

I said good-bye. We knew she was going to die. I’d been to enough funerals.

I’m sorry. I really would have gone if it hadn’t been the only weekend I had

time to have fun and be happy for a change after all the fucking Hell I’ve

lived.

ALL GOOD: THE MOST FUN A DISAPPOINTMENT HAS EVER BEEN

I clawed my brother’s face as I told him about the Flaming Lips being at All Good. I

was going to see the Allman Brothers Band, all the living members of the Dead

playing on their own, Dark Star Orchestra, Michael Franti, Greensky Bluegrass, the

Macpodz, like, that line-up was the closest thing to perfect that I was gonna get.

And, oh my god, the Flaming Lips! I was so excited to see them after the last time I

saw them, my unbreakable appreciation of Yoshimi development, Wayne following

me on Twitter, and the dream I had.

He fucking disappointed me, to say the least.

I had a great time at All Good. It was the best festival I could have gone to that

year. Sure, I would have tweaked a few things, but nothing is absolutely perfect,

especially not anything created by humans! It was good time. But man. I was really

hoping for that Coyne-fuel Flaming energy I had felt before but it wasn’t there. I was

at the brink of giving up hope and for so many months I told myself,

“Just have to make it to All Good.”

Then I made it only to see that I am not the only one giving up hope. I met some

really amazing people that weekend. I heard some amazing fucking jams that

weekend. Every moment I cherish in my heart. But Damn, Wayne. Where were you?

Among the circus of beautiful magic, where were you? Down in the dumps

somewhere? Because I was coming to you to get out of the dumps. You even said

you were waiting for a sign to say “It’s All Good” and thanks to my ex-girlfriend, I

was up front with a sign saying “IT’S ALL GOOD”! What more can I do?

Rather, what more can be done?

My purse was taken from the campsite Monday between the hours of five and ten

a.m. Can’t win ‘em all; but I had some seriously sad losses. I lost my chillum the

Pink Robot (probably a good sign), my new Dead pins from that weekend, my flower

pen, key chains galore… Mostly shit I shouldn’t have even had anymore, to be

honest. But, man. My fucking little orange rap journal was in there.

I returned from All Good in a bittersweet mood. I was happy to have

experienced it, but I felt like giving up again. I no longer had something to

look forward to.

BUT OH, WAIT. I DID. AND IT WAS PETER FUCKING

GABRIEL!!!

In the months waiting for Peter Gabriel, shit got continuously fucked up. My

cat was breaking my desire’s fragile heart over a couple of pixies. A Con

Artist appeared as though from thin air, in need of more pixies. It seemed

like what we had built after the destruction was destructing. This led to some

mild self-destruction with tragedy among us. The city in which the Gates of

Hell were opened is on its fast-happening decline to its eventual decay. You

are not safe from human evils anywhere. Now, the city that avoided

everything has seen it all.

Two boys that ventured into the city of Detroit to buy drugs are dead. They

were found on the far east side, naked in a field. They are friends of one my

brothers and now they are friends of mine. They were shot in the back of

their heads on their knees—execution style. They died scared. It seems to

me a storm of civil war could be brewing. White Suburbia v. Black City with

the added ignorant chaos of Red in between. The people of Suburbia are

pissed the fuck off. They are furious at Detroit as a community and black

people in general because two of their children ended up dead there. But

who is at fault, here? The mentality that dominates Suburbia is that of an

innocent one, even when they are not so innocent. Bless these boys and may

they rest in peace, but why were they in Detroit buying drugs in the first

place? How are you going to be mad at someone else for their whereabouts?

I don’t think there is ever a scenario in which one should kill another human

being, especially when they have not committed an act of violence against

you. But these boys probably shouldn’t have been where they were. I think

they know that now.

It seems like Death is the one thing that can make you appreciate Life. Or so

I’ve seen. It’s too bad you have to shake the fucker’s hand in order to feel his

presence…

I’ve known Death for a while. We’re practically neighbors.

Life as I knew it was once again slipping. My desire cannot be tamed. My love

runs absolutely wild. I’m running madly Wilde. There is no point in trying

anymore. The Con Artist conned me or conned you but either way, why trust

a Con Artist?

A lot of people tend to be able to stand me for about six months. This rule

typically applies to ‘my girlfriends’ and most of the dudes I befriend are lost

within the first year due to said bitches. My girlfriends tend to be cute girls

with low self-esteem because I find girls who don’t find themselves overly

attractive more attractive than girls that do.

Six month therapy sessions. That’s all I ever seem to be to girls. Even the

girls I think will be an exception. Six months, and my life changes again.

Always finding myself at a loss of people, feeling, words… Everything seems

to fly back into space every six months.

I really expected you to be different.

I got to see Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes the day before Gabriel.

It was pretty cool. I totally fell in love with Jade. I saw my ex-wife there. She

told me she wrote me a letter and seemed pretty desperate about me. It was

like, I didn’t give a shit (and what less of anything can you give but a shit?)

about seeing her or speaking to her, especially after she had previously

given me the cold shoulder. Even after telling her I’d read it and reminding

her to give it to me, she still hasn’t given me this letter. Makes me give even

less of a fuck about her. Now, I really don’t mind being around her, I could

just never be her friend again. But I feel that way about almost every bitch

I’ve ever known.

It was there that I saw a boy across a table; sunglasses at night with a sketch

pad. LOL hey LY!

I felt pretty sore in awe of Peter Gabriel. It was the most gorgeous display of

music I’ve ever witnessed. It was perfect in every way imaginable. I’m glad I

got to experience it with my best friends. But because I got my tattoo, it

seemed to be the last thing on my bucket list. I felt so totally fucked again. It

seemed all I had to really live for was the dead. And the Dead. And the hope

in dreams spun from insanity.

Things so crazy, they might work?

Things so insane, they could be true?

GHOST STORIES

My whole life, I wished I’d believed in ghosts. I saw evidence on television but I

never had any for myself. Death made me sad so I wanted to believe in ghosts but I

could never bring myself to do it. I guess all my dead was at peace at the end and it

wasn’t until there was some disturbance in death that I acquired my ghosts. Now,

you couldn’t convince me otherwise; I am happily haunted.

THE HARLEY QUEEN This was the first ghost I encountered. After the disaster, it

was very hard to sleep. It was even harder to dream. The first time I dreamt since it

happened was the week of and all I remember about it was my aunt. I think we

were in her kitchen. I saw her smiling and I called out for her. She just laughed a

silent laugh. She wouldn’t show me her teeth, but she was smiling the whole time.

She was walking away from me and I was still calling for her. I think I was crying.

She continued to smile and she waved and then she was gone. I woke up realizing

the worst part of someone dying is that you can’t ever hear their voice again. I

haven’t seen her since.

MARLBORO BOYS I called out to these boys after finding out what had happened.

It didn’t take one long to find me. Few of us were outside of a pixie’s apartment. We

were waiting for her to let us in, when a toad hopped out of nowhere. To be honest,

I’ve never seen a wild toad this big or yellow in my life. The kid tried to pick it up

but it hopped from him. He finally grabbed it and as he stood upright, the toad

jumped into my desire’s hands immediately. After ten seconds of being in her

hands, he jumped to mine. As he sat in my palm, we stared each other in the eyes.

I’ve never seen a toad look scared. Part of me wishes I would have held on, but I

was afraid it was going to pee on me, so I tossed it away. I knew it was one of those

boys and I knew he was scared and I think he was kind of mad about what

happened.

Weeks after that happened, the other boy gave me a lighter and saved my life. I

always kept a lighter in Big Bad Jill’s apron. You never know when you’ll have to

light a candle or take a smoke break. I always had a lighter. It was a red Bic then.

Somehow, some when, it was let loose of my apron’s middle pocket and into the

object-eating abyss of my car. I had my desire bring me cigarettes and she let me

borrow her lighter for the day. I gave it back to her that night. We decided to go

look at the houses we dreamed of owning as we did so many nights, but something

was urging me not to go. I had never felt uncomfortable doing this. We did it all the

time. But for some reason, I was incredibly uneasy.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go.”

“Okay, why?”

“I don’t know… It’s 1:30 in the morning.”

“So? We’ve done this at two in the morning.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I didn’t want to feel the way I did so I was going to let it happen. But for some

reason, I couldn’t. We were about to pass over Tele. I got the most overwhelming

feeling throughout my entire body. The feeling consumed me whole, from inside to

outside. Tears welled in my eyes and I blurted out:

“Turn. Go North. I can’t go East right now. I just can’t. I can go West but I can’t go

East.”

I think he saved us that night. The next day I still didn’t have a lighter in my apron. I

borrowed one when I took my smoke breaks at work. Later that night, my desire

was coming to pick me up. When she arrived, I reached for my cigarettes and one-

hitter and out fell a black Bic. I stared in amazement and ran to her car completely

crazed. I was in that pocket all night long, grabbing change and cigarettes. There is

no way I would have missed a lighter in the course of two days. After having some

time to think about it, I decided to text the brother and ask him about the boys the

next night.

“Did either of them have a preferred colour Bic?”

“Not really. If it worked, they used it, you know?”

“Yeah. Do you know what their favourite colours were?”

“I think [his] was red and [his] was green. May I ask why you are asking me this?”

“Of course. I think one of them gave me a black Bic.”

“Oh, [he] used to black out everything.”

“Really?! What do you mean?”

“He coloured everything black. He painted his car black, he even blacked out his

subs.”

“That makes a lot of sense. Now I’m sure it was [him].”

“That’s so cool. Let them know I love them and that they are missed.”

“They know. I think [he] is still angry, but he’ll come around. I promise.”

My best friend asked me to buy her a pack of cigarettes on my way to a bonfire, so I

decided to buy some for myself. I didn’t feel like buying Pall Malls, but I didn’t know

what I wanted. After bullshitting with the dude in the gas station for five minutes

and rambling off every cigarette I’ve ever smoked, this pack of Marlboro Black

Menthol Hundreds caught my eye. I had never been crazy about the idea of Black

cigarettes, but for some reason, I bought them for the first time ever. I went to the

bonfire and hung out with some bakery kids, and I left for Tree City. I arrived to a

pow-wow in the living room as always. I had my cigarettes on the table, Black

menthols with a red Bic. I looked at it and smiled because as I talked about my

conversation with the brother, I realized I had their three colours: Black, green, and

red. We went into the bedroom to smoke a baseball bat. I took my jacket off and

noticed two black dots on my arms. They looked like Sharpie, but I didn’t have a

black Sharpie. I didn’t have sleeves covering my arms all day, either. These were

born when my arms were covered. I immediately began to cry.

“Well. I guess [he’s] not mad anymore.”

THE STAR A girl I used to rave with back in the days, who killed herself. It nearly

broke my heart. I was never close to her because she never talked much. I thought

she was an e-tard. I felt so guilty for not noticing maybe she just needed some

friends. The news of a girl whose life I could have potentially helped but let slip

through my fingers was a sad feeling. So I called out to her, because some of my

friends are dead. About a week after I called out to her, I found one of the bracelets

she gave me with beads that spelled her name. The night I put it on, I found marks

all over my hand and another Sharpie-like dot on my left hand—the same one as

the bracelet. It’s funny, because she worked where I currently work, so I work with

someone who was friends with her. I told him my ghost stories and a little bit about

my haunting life. I wanted to show him the picture of my hand, but I realized it was

on my desire’s phone and not mine. I ended up calling her after work and she later

sent me the picture. That night, I let Panda borrow my knife. He noticed it had a

bejewel in it. I didn’t know there was a bejewel in it. I am more convinced this was

the Star over probability. A week later, I told my co-worker about it and showed him

the picture of my hand. When I came into work the next morning, I was told the

water was left running all night. I don’t care what anyone says, there’s no way four

people didn’t notice a sink being on. When I got off work, I told the story to my

dearest friends in my best friend’s garage. When I had left and gone back to ma

man’s, she asked me what my Star looked like.

“Yeah. She was definitely in [my best friend’s] garage tonight. I saw her.”

HERO He continuously talks to me through my radio. White noise doesn’t say much,

but he tells me a whole lot. I’ve learned life is about timing and he has the best

timing. And he’s always telling me to try. There was a night my desire and I sat on a

porch we already felt was slightly haunted. I was complaining about a boy I loved

like she loved Hero when he was alive and I was getting the heaviest boots because

I just didn’t know what to do about it anymore, and all I really wanted to know was if

Hero really loved her, you know? I wanted to know he died for love and not just bad

timing. We sat in silence for a moment and in that moment, I felt everything. It

started as a warm, tingling sensation in my ear, at first. It got warmer and the

sensation crept down my neck and into my chest. My eyes immediately swelled up

with tears, but I was not upset. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t fucked up. I was everything.

There is no other way to describe that feeling but everything, all at once. It was the

most incredible thing I have ever felt. My desire and I made eye contact and she

immediately swelled with tears. We sort of laughed wildly.

“I don’t know why we’re crying right now but we’re crying right now and I don’t

know, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Um, I don’t… I don’t. I don’t really know. But… I don’t know, but I think… I don’t

know, feels like a ghost. I don’t know.”

I sat and tried to relax my body. I closed my eyes. I leaned back. I didn’t go

anywhere, but I felt like I was floating. Perhaps the blood beneath my skin was

bubbling, or my bones were taking flight. My body felt light or full of light or like my

insides were floating. I looked at my desire again and I had the strongest urge to

reach out and tackle her in my arms. I resisted the urge because I didn’t think it was

my urge and I refused his desire for her. The feeling within me continued when we

went back inside, and I gently floated down. I may have not known his life, but I feel

as though I’m getting to know him in death, as so many of them.

And most recently, when I was sick, I saw him. Not only did I see him, but I felt him.

You know, it has crossed my mind that ghosts could possibly be a part of the

human subconscious. Even more likely, part of our unconscious mind. My

thing is, I rarely see ghosts. And I hardly ever hear ghosts. I feel them. The

one conclusion I have come up with in life is that we cannot know anything

but what we feel. When life is completely personal—because our reality is

the way we perceive it—the only thing we can be certain of is what we feel.

When literally Everything in life can be questioned, the only thing we cannot

doubt is how we feel. We are our existence. Without us, we don’t exist.

Anything outside of us is beyond our control. Therefore, what we feel is truly

the only concrete evidence to reality that we have. There is not much of a

way for an outside force to interfere with what you can feel. But maybe my

unconscious mind was trying to scare me of Death.

I was sleeping in intervals that day and night. It must have been around two a.m.

when I opened my eyes and looked out my window at the moon. I did this two more

times. Sometime when the sun came up, I stared it directly in the face and fell back

asleep. I dreamt I was exactly as I was in reality, but I was holding someone’s hand.

I didn’t know who it was at first, but it made me smile because I had been alone and

sick for a couple days. I assumed it was Tyler because it was my dreams. Something

told me it wasn’t. I turned from my window and lay on my back to try and figure out

what was going on. I felt a hand in my hand. I looked at my hand and there was a

hand there. I felt it. It felt so real, I opened my eyes. I was half expecting to find a

hand there, but obviously there wasn’t anyone in bed with me. I immediately went

back to dreaming a hand in mine. I squeezed it a few times and it squeezed back. I

ran my free hand across an arm dressed in blue to find a head of blond. I ran my

hand over the face and realized who it was. My hand wiped away the blue sleeves

to leave him in a red tee shirt. I began to say his name, but I was shushed. Then I

woke up.

Maybe it’s all unreal, but it’s hard to argue with feeling. There are all those

little things like waking up with a burn or getting tear-eyed or feeling

something in the air—something else there. Seeing things in my dreams

seems to me to be more evidence for my case. In addition to my personal

hauntings, I was called upon by my brother and his theater friends at three

a.m. to explore other hauntings just around the corner. It is a “case”, you

could say, still in progress.

It’s interesting to me because we can never know anything surely about

reality but the fact that we will surely die. Sorry, I find death as interesting as

I find life. I’m not saying I want to die, but I am quite curious about that side.

And I don’t see how like everything else, they wouldn’t co-exist.

Right?

“Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home”

FEARLESS FREAKS, SHAMELESS GEEKS, & PRACTICAL WOMEN

“All you’ll see is a self-reflected inner sadness”

Would you even believe in my lack of self-esteem after I’ve written this

damned thing? I had faked confidence long enough to actually find some of

the real shit, but after my long list of failures to come with said confidence,

I’ve completely lost it.

LOL I’ve completely lost it! LY

After years of social experiments and third-party observation, I’ve come up

with what I find to be somewhat useful but slightly inconclusive data up for

interpretation and up for discussion:

It seems to me life is on repeat… DUH.

They tell you in History class that history repeats itself. I always believed it,

but I only ever thought of in the context of a history book. It wasn’t until my

years post-History I came to realize it is applicable for short-term history, i.e.

a lifespan, and long-term history, i.e. existence. I began to notice, especially

after that last chapter, my life would drastically change but not actually

change much. It started to freak me out. I mean, I felt like I had psychic

powers because I got so fucking good at calling it as I saw it and I always

fucking saw it because I catch on quickly.

It’s a cycle. Sure, Disney sings about “the Circle of Life” but really, it’s a sick

cyclical turn into a self-constructed oblivion of endless chaos.

It’s disgusting.

I was finding myself knowing the same girl over and over again. They just

had different names and body types; different hairstyles and cup sizes. All

the things that don’t matter to me were the only things that would ever be

different about these girls. The things that were always the same were the

things that do matter to me and all the most defected parts: their hearts. It’s

too bad they are always too hung up about what looks wrong with them to

realize it isn’t the way you smell that attracts people. It’s the way you vibe.

Unless, of course, all someone wants is your vagina. In that case, you best be

doin’ Keigels, girl. It ain’t gonna be tight forever when you use it like that.

Oh, like I have room to talk. Calm down, slut. I’m the

whore.

It would seem the same would happen of dudes, too. In the end, it seems

none of them care about the ideas behind my hippie skirts. They just want

the tight, wise cunt underneath.

I can’t say I totally blame people for being this way. We were sort of created

in the most unnatural fashion. We were raised by the media because we are

the babies of the Technological Revolution.

See, okay. You hate us. Our parents and the “certain age” crowd is pissed off

for the way we talk, the way we dress, the way we act, the things we like,

the things we do—the way we live—even though they raised us. Now, I’m not

saying you were all terrible parents. I think my parents made plenty of

mistakes in my childhood but I think it all worked out pretty nicely. In my

opinion, they did a great job because I’m speaking my mind and I think that

is one of the most important things in life. So in a way, I think my parents are

perfect, as any good kid would, just as my parents are (hopefully) looking

away from these pages and continuing to pretend that I am perfect :D

You know, as much as I love them, I really hope I don’t have to become my

parents. Not because they aren’t good people. They are great people. Let’s

be real, we are our parents. Fifty-fifty. It’s just that I don’t want to live like

they do. None of us do. None of us want to be in this suffocating society that

has been done unto us. Fuck, they’re all gonna be gone someday, anyway.

Can we at least try to make our own decisions and attempt to make you

proud while you are still here? We may have solutions for some of our

current problems, but you don’t want to listen to us. By the time we have the

power to fix anything, we probably won’t have solutions because we’ll have

entirely new problems. I’d like to be able to attempt what we’ve got going on

right now, but they are too stubborn to ask for help—especially from people

half their age.

Guess what, boys? We outsmarted you. Granted, it’s only because of how

smart you are, but we still manage to be smarter. You gave us the genetics

and synthetic ability to do so and we’ve done it. We made it passed this

round of “It’s The End of the World!” Congratulations! Still, I don’t know if I’d

trust you guys with making your own decisions. Y’all fuckin’ ridiculous kinds

of stupid.

We don’t want to grow up. We are stalling the process of becoming our

parents because we really don’t want to do it.

We don’t want the same things it seems that they wanted. And with divorce

rates at an all-time high, it seems as though many of our parents didn’t

seem to know what they wanted. They wanted us, I guess. I can appreciate

that. I think we can all appreciate that. It’s almost like they sacrificed their

own happiness for our lives. That’s pretty cool. But are we just going to

sacrifice our happiness for our kids?

Probably not because we’d rather get fucked up than knocked up but being

fucked up sometimes leads to being knocked up.

And if we’re getting fucked up, something tells me we’re not that happy

when we’re not fucked up.

And if we’re fucked up, knocked up, and not happy… That’s a sticky

situation, huh?

So was the sacrifice of your happiness worth it if we still aren’t happy?

Are we gonna sacrifice our happiness in hopes that our children will have the

happiness we’ve all sacrificed?

Or is this an endless, miserable cycle?

In which case, WHAT THE FUCK IS THE

POINT?

If all we have to look forward to in life is being miserable, then I guess we’re

going to be on drugs for most of it.

Upon leaving the trap house, I stopped doing drugs for the most part. To say

I am entirely sober 100% of the time would be to lie. I don’t count weed as a

drug. Weed is my medicine. Aside from the pot I smoke, I very occasionally

will take some sort of psychedelic—like an acid representative—in attempts

to get my head together. In a way, I continue my research of hallucinogens

in psychology, but have long slowed the experiments down. There have been

other times I’ve consumed a pill or two that I’ve experimented with before,

free of charge—though I have caved and bought Vicodin in the past year.

(Come on. Rough months. Fuck off a minute.) Thing is, even when I intake

drugs, I still don’t get that fucked up. It’s been this way for years. I’m not

sure what it is. Perhaps, ultimately, my mind is stronger than the drugs it

takes because I know I don’t get shitty boo-boo drugs all the time. Especially

when I can see those around me actually fucked up on the same drugs.

Maybe I took enough acid long before taking all that acid.

The one thing that does get me fucked up is alcohol. That’s why I don’t drink.

For some reason, people love to get annihilated. They think it is just

awesome to get punched in the face or fucked in the ass and not feel it.

Almost everyone I have that I could consider a friend or even an

acquaintance drinks, and when they do, they don’t stop until the liquor is

gone. Once the liquor is gone, they get more. And after two a.m. when they

can’t buy any more, shit gets fucked up.

I’ll be the first to tell you, I’m an alcoholic. It runs wild through my family and

I’m one of those people who don’t stop ‘til it’s gone and I’m done. This is the

precise reason I don’t drink. Again, I’m not swearing on anyone’s grave that

I’ve not had a drop since I’ve ‘quit’. I will occasionally drink a beer and less

occasionally take a shot. And shit, if you tell me you got a liter of Admiral, I

might tell you I’m gettin’ drunk.

I would consider most of the people I have watched get shitty wasted to also

be alcoholics because it takes one to know one. Many of them will drink as

they do now until the day they die—which may be sooner than they wanted

to plan for. Or, not soon enough.

So if we’re all alcoholics, what’s the difference?

What is so great about it, anyway? When you are drunk, you can do

whatever you want and you don’t have to pay consequences for your actions

because you have the excuse that you were drunk? Cool, what the fuck? I’ll

do whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want, regardless of the

substances in me. I know I don’t always make the best decisions. I’ve just

told you about all the things most people wouldn’t be proud of. I’m not

necessarily proud of it, but I’m gonna be honest about it because it

happened and you can’t change that.

But how can you get mad about our actions when we learned everything

from you?

Let’s put my words into perspective, okay? Say the world was ending. It’s not

going to end when you are expecting it. That’s just another tactic to instill

the fear we constantly live in. But say it was. How would you feel about that?

Are you prepared for the end of the world? Some people go to church and

pray and shit and they think that prepares them for the end of the world.

Hey, good for them. That’s a level I can respect. A lot of people go out and

buy supplies for the end of the world. Sure, you may get a few months in

you, best case apocalypse scenario? But like, when the world ends, it’s over.

Are you going to be satisfied with being the last man standing? Who is there

to tell?

Or does that make you…

THE ULTIMATE WINNER OF THE GAME OF LIFE?!

Is it what you have at the end of the world that determines how successful

you were at life? Is having all the remaining food and money going to allow

for your survival and therefore, make the end of the world a good thing for

you? Is that what will make you feel okay when you see the stars crash out

of the sky? When you see everything that has surrounded you your whole

existence up in smoke, will it make you feel better to know you’ll have

enough food when it becomes ash?

Because I’m just hoping that by the time the world does end, I’m happy.

Right about meow, I’d be pretty happy with the world ending, just because I

sort of despise humanity. I sure as hell hope I will have found some goddamn

peace, love, and fucking happiness when it does. I hope I die happy. I dream

I will have someone to face it with, because there is nothing else I could

possibly need at that point. But people don’t seem to see it that way. They

want to make sure they will survive to see nothing. Man, what is that? What

is left to see? You think that’s your big chance to rule the world? When there

is nothing left to rule? I guess I could see how that would be cool. However,

my life is people. Without people, I see no life. But most of them fuck me

over so bad I wish they were never in my life.

Then again, haters made us famous, right?

Rather than having to completely start over, I’d like to try and repair what

we have broken. Instead of waiting for the world to end to relieve us all of

the problems we’ve created for ourselves, let’s address the problems and

work on it. Instead of hiding behind excuses and dying with our sins and

secrets, let’s be honest with ourselves so we can be honest with each other

so we can stop destroying one another and therefore, the world around us,

as we have been. Let’s stop that, please?

Don’t hate on who we are when you made us that way. You can blame it on

cable television and social networking, but who is in charge of that shit?

You are.

No, I’m not asking for stronger censorship. I’m calling for a wider spread of

education so that we better understand the world around us. Stop saying,

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” Fuck that. Treat children like people

because that’s what they are. Why leave them out? I don’t think you need to

be graphically honest about everything you say to a kid, but don’t keep shit

from them. If they ask you a question, answer it. If I wasn’t so damn curious I

may have stayed out of some trouble. If all you want is for your offspring or

your students to stay out of trouble, stop trying to protect them from it by

making them think it’s not there. That’s one thing my mom definitely did

right. She was honest.

But it’s too late for Generation Y. We’ve answered our own questions. And

Generation Z isn’t even asking questions anymore. They have phones

smarter than all of us.

Here we are, damaged goods living in a broken society. You hate on us and

hate on us and hate on us for being sinners, or rebels, or fuck ups, or

whatever you want to call us but what do you expect? There is no hope left

in our world. We have nothing to do because we have no control. We have no

power, we have no money, and we have no faith. So we get high. You don’t

like it so you make it illegal and it pisses us off. Fueling a fire you started but

pay billions of dollars to put out.

WHAT THE FUCK, PRUDE? PUT OUT. PUT IT THE FUCK OUT!

You get mad that we are killing ourselves but we have nothing to live for but

the things we die for. What do you want us to do? You’re telling us the world

is about to end. How can you expect us to give a fuck about what happens if

Everything is going to end? And if it doesn’t end, it’s still gonna be a fuckin’

suck. We’re living in fear in hopes to be ruined because we only have

suffering to look forward to.

Why, people? Why? Why this world we live in?

Because that’s the way life is?

No.

What do you know about life that I don’t?

Because I’m pretty sure it’s absolutely nothing. We are all the same thing

and that is human being. So really, you don’t know any better than anyone

else. It’s simply a matter of what you believe. So don’t tell me, “That’s life.” I

don’t believe that. I’m sorry if you do believe in misery. Just so you know,

they are way cooler things you could believe that are much less depressing.

Just sayin’.

I may have done a lot of things you think I shouldn’t be proud of but here I

am putting them on public display for not much less of a reason than I don’t

give a fuck. I have nothing to hide. I’m so fucking sick of being lied to by it

seems like everyone I know because we’ve been raised and taught to feel

shame about the things we do and therefore ourselves. But as I live my life,

it seems as though the less shame you have, the more money you have. And

the more money you have, the more successful you are considered. Or does

that only work for “beautiful people”?

Do you think I’m beautiful?

Because that’s not what I’ve ever felt like. Especially because of you. I feel

like I’ll never because I wasn’t good enough for the only person I ever

wanted. But shit, I ain’t got shit else better going on. I might as well put

myself on display as others have and cross my fingers that my ride to Hell

can be loaded with wealth. I guess I’m willing to find out what you think of

me and you can tell me how I should make my money.

I’ll tell you who I am, you tell me what to do. I know what I’d like to do, but it

seems impossible. But the best fucking part about life?

Absolutely nothing is impossible.

Either we have a creator or we don’t. Say we do. Only our creator can be the

judge in what is right or what is wrong. Only this thing from which we

spawned can tell us what is true and what is false. And if there is no creator

in the biggest of the pictures, there isn’t even a judge. In that case, we

definitely don’t have a way to determine right and wrong. Either way, we are

all people and we are therefore all equal. We are all the same thing, and so

we are equally powerful because none of us can know anything for fact. We

have only experienced life as humans. If we don’t know how we got here, we

don’t know anything about it.

Technically speaking. It’s all about the technicalities of our realities because

those technicalities, or, these that I speak of, deem us lawless. Truly, we are.

I mean, you can bank on your beliefs all you want. I just can’t believe in

anything that doesn’t want me to live enough to enjoy Life. I can think of one

rule in humanity and that is to do no harm to others. That’s why I can’t help

but love Jesus! I just don’t jive with his daddy, so much…

Don’t tell me there is a way. I will go my own. I call you to go your own. Don’t

ever let someone tell you what you deserve, ever. Don’t let anyone make

you think you are entitled to any less than they are. Don’t think that what

you are given is what you have to take. Never believe you cannot have what

you want. When you go about the fairest way of playing the game—even

when you break some rules—your reality can be whatever you want it to be.

It’s just life and it’s so cool. It’s a game all about the player.

I don’t play games, bitch. I’m retired.

I live Life. I do what I gotta do to obtain the things I want. The number one

thing I have to do right now is clear my head. After Everything has been

done unto me, I need one moment to breathe. I can’t breathe drowning in an

ocean. After years of being unable to fully communicate to anyone what is

truly on my mind, I decided I needed to write a book just to get it all out. I

dream my words are worth anyone’s time and in that time, help that anyone.

That would be the best thing that could ever happen to me. That’s what

would really help me. If I knew that if every last ounce of shit that was shat

on my face allowed someone to have even just a drop of gold, it would have

been worth it. I’ve dealt with a lot. We all have. But I see way too many

people pretend like they have nothing to worry about for me to keep my

mouth shut.

Hey, let’s face our fears so we can conquer them. Let’s drop these stupid

acts we put on for each other, eliminate all the bullshit and get real with

each other. Let’s stop raging against each other and rally together. If no one

wants to give us hope in anything, let’s create our own hope. Obviously, the

American Dream turned out to be a total Suburban Nightmare. Let’s dream

about somethin’ else.

But it seems to me like nobody around here dreams anymore.

It’s hard to sleep with ghosts at your feet. For some people. I’m comfortable

with my ghosts. When you address Death personally, he gets more and more

polite. I think me making that statement frightens a certain kind of person. I

found comfort in ghosts because it has helped me get a better grasp on

Death and I have learned to accept someday I will die. I don’t want to die. I

mean, eventually, I think I will feel satisfied enough to. However, I want to

live my life to the longest, fullest maximum I possibly can.

To be honest, though… Sometimes, the other option seems more likely… \m/

LOL FUCK MY LIFE LY

By living my life by the Scientific Method, I have discovered the Universe.

Granted, I did drugs along the way and that is also how many people

discover the Universe. But in reality, drugs are just science. And your

concoctions of over-counter, underground drugs have made us feel

invincible. We’re ready for anything because we care about nothing because

it seems our futures hold misery.

Bitch… Please.

I refuse to have that Life. I wish everyone would refuse that Life. I wish

people could do what made them happy because society would be so much

more enjoyable if we were all happy. Instead, we work to be happy but never

finish the job. Or we live for small moments. I mean, it’s nice to have the

small moments. But fuck, man. We’re here once. Why doesn’t everyone want

to celebrate that? Holy shit, you exist in my reality and I love you! There is

nothing in the world that makes me happier than you do! Sometimes, I get

the urge to shout it in your face how much I love you! I’m sorry you don’t get

as excited as I do. I bet it looks so overwhelming from the outside. I’m not on

drugs. I’m on that Life shit. I’m on some people shit. It’s love that makes me

so crazy. I enjoy the drug scenes without the drugs because I’m a fuckin’

drug, I guess.

Most people that have an issue with the wild side to life is the dark side of

drugs that influence it. That’s too bad. I’ve done my fair share of drugs and

I’ve seen and heard and done some cool shit on these drugs. When I was first

experimenting with drugs, I was very curious about them. I did indeed have a

Leary point in my experiments in which I did think the world would be a

better place if everyone was on acid all the time. Now, that’s kind of the

problem with acid. It can make people think that way. That doesn’t mean

everyone that takes acid thinks that way. Most people that have used it will

say the same thing, and that it is not for everyone.

I think the underlying reason I felt this way is because I had only experienced

Universal Consciousness while under the influence of drugs. After trippin’

somewhere into at least three-digits in this dimension, I learned that I didn’t

need to take psychedelics to feel the side effects upon ingestion. I wanted

other people to reach this conclusion as well. Here I am trying to explain

Universal Consciousness, but I think the thing about it is you have to figure it

out yourself. So I tried to hold every raging fist I could find to walk them

through an acid trip in hopes that they would find what I found. It seemed as

though they were too distracted by all the things I never saw: the visuals.

It’s too bad. The one drug that could have been useful isn’t because we’re

too concentrated on getting away from this reality before us. We love the

feeling of invincibility, though it is a lie. It’s like we can’t enjoy anything

unless we’re under the influence of something. I wish the love we felt on

lysergic acid diethylamide was possible to achieve without it, but we’d rather

not feel. It leaves us some very selfish beings.

Can we fix it? Can people be taught to be selfless rather than selfish? Or is it

something you are born with? Is our nature to be selfish? Because I think

Mother Nature shows us quite a bit of tolerance. It would be nice if we could

show a little respect back.

And maybe if we respected the world around us, we’d begin to respect

ourselves enough to start respecting each other. Is that a solution?

Or do you people enjoy giving a fuck about bullshit and not caring about

Everything? If that is how you wish to be, so be. But if anyone else is willing

to work on it, I know I sure am.

I’m here to help, remember?

I don’t see enough smiles in a day. When we have a bad day, we can see it.

But when every day is bad, what is left to look at? These last few years have

brought me down so far, I can’t get any lower. I know I’m not the only one.

How am I ever going to feel any better if people are what make me happy

and all the people in my line of vision aren’t any better than me?

Especially when they all act like fucking fools about how sad they are.

Yeah, I get it. You’ve been through some shit. Me too. But damn. Is it really

necessary to be fucked up all the time? I mean, as you’ve read, I’ve been

through some shit. I get it. I know how you feel. I may not be doing exactly

what you’re doing but you haven’t done exactly what I’ve done, either. All I

do is smoke weed. Most people prefer when I’m stoned. I stay slightly

subdued and carry on with my day.

And yet it is perfectly legal for girls who are at least twenty-one-years-old,

though no more than sixteen-in-the-head, to get embarrassingly sloppy in

hopes to be used as a sex toy of the evening’s event?

Why? So you can take my money for your prescription drugs instead?

Okay. Sell me weed, then. Jesus Christ. You tax my alcohol, you tax my

cigarettes; you might as well tax my weed and not my paycheck.

Because I don’t suck dick.

I think the act of sucking dick is extremely degrading. My mouth is used to

eat and I’m a vegetarian. No, I will not eat your meat. These lips can be

yours for you to kiss, but I’m not going to kiss your cock. This hole is for

speaking, not for your stick to keep me quiet.

As a woman, it’s hard to trust men. Especially when men have wronged you,

a woman, over time. Sure, you may want to help me but in the end oh, you

just want to fuck me. Awesome. One of many reasons I wish I were a lesbian.

Or just had a fucking penis. I think it’s pretty fucking disgusting how men

can’t take honesty seriously. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a dick-hating

feminist because I hate these stupid pussies just as much as I hate these

scheming dicks. I’d like to believe males and females can see eye-to-eye

someday, but men are too fascinated by our vaginas to care about much

else. Not that most of those vaginas have much else to offer, anyway. It’s

upsetting to me that people just use each other. It turns people, my favourite

thing, into robots, my least favourite thing. It’s so disgusting. Maybe I’m just

a whiny vagina. I mean, there will probably someone who will eventually

read this book that is going to discredit everything I say solely for my vagina.

They will crack the pages knowing they don’t like me because I’m a feminist.

Guess what? I’m not only a feminist, but also a fucking cunt and will continue

to be one until there we have Equalism upon us.

I’m gonna believe that person is jealous that they aren’t as smart as me, and

they are going to laugh at me comforting myself because they are going to

hold their prejudices.

Cool, glad we had this talk.

I guess the only way I can see the need for whoredom is if I truly am just a

reproductive product. If all I will ever be to every male I meet is a vagina,

then I don’t even really want to reproduce. But I also don’t want to get with a

girl to make us both feel better because most girls don’t deserve to feel

better about their selves. Avoiding your problems doesn’t make you any

stronger. Learning from your mistakes does. But if you never pay

consequences for your actions, you never really learn that you have made a

mistake. You just continue to get away with it.

Plus, I know for a fact I’m not a lesbian.

I just said fact after I tried to eliminate the word from your vocabulary. The

one thing I think we always know for a fact is the way we feel. I think I

mentioned this earlier, but I am happy to reiterate this point. It’s still true.

When the only thing we know for certain is that we are conscious, the only

thing that can be fact to us is what we feel. If the only thing in life that

matters is yourself, the only thing you can truly trust is what you feel.

But we’ve turned off feeling. Please Turn It On. Why are you doing everything

you can to suffocate the only truth we know? Stop with your thought-stunting

drugs and your poisonous inhibiters. Unless you want to look me in the face

and tell me you want to die. Then I’ll let you do whatever the fuck you want.

I’m also going to ask you why you feel this way. It’d probably be more useful

to ask you while under the influence of your fatal recreationals because you

would be more inclined to telling me the truth. The problem is the denial that

comes with sobering up the next day. The only way to live with the shame

being to once again get fucked up.

But because I’m slightly on the mentally unstable side, I can’t be your

therapist unless I take the drugs I advocate against. It is the only way to

acquire the patience I don’t have for college. I’m very tolerant, but I’m not

very patient. Well, shit. I don’t know how much “time” I have. I don’t know

when my existence will cease to exist. Of course I’m not patient. I am not

trying to waste one single moment. I love this shit way too much. It’s

unfortunate how much it feels like I’m wasting. I have space to explore, what

the fuck am I doing making sandwiches?

Yo. Dick. Don’t even think it. We don’t take orders.

I think it’s absolutely ridiculous what girls with do for boys’ attention. It’s

even worse what these girls will do to each other because of these boys. As

long as we are human, we will be stuck in this lustful sex cycle and I don’t

much care to be a part of it.

First prize don’t need to compete.

But no one has claimed the prize.

Because people don’t care to listen.

Oh, well.

Is that cocky? Bitch, I’m the sun.

What are you?

People get really mad about the shit I say. There’s a lot of thought behind

these statements, but they come from some whole other level that I’ve

gotten lost in. Once you are all caught up with the game I played on the level

you’re on, we can start talking about the level I’m on. But until then, do your

best to figure me out before you judge me. Obviously, if you are reading the

guide to understand me, you’re curious. I don’t blame you. We’re all a little

curious about drugs. But don’t get fucked up. Don’t get my shit fucked up.

We can fuck shit up but don’t be gettin’ fucked up on my shit. That’s the

complete opposite of what I’m out to do here.

Figure it out. If you care enough to hate me, you should at least understand

why you do. They say you can’t hate someone unless they represent to you

something you hate about yourself. I think that is true. I think it’s possible

you could have change that part about you and that’s why you hate them,

but I think that can also work in reverse. People can just as well hate you for

what they cannot change of their own. Some people find me to be quick to

judge. I am just really good at reading people. I’m sorry I can read people

faster than they can write themselves. I’d say I’m right about eight out of ten

times. Why waste any time on something I can almost safely assume is going

nowhere? The same reason I put so much effort into what I think will. I’m

wrong about that, sometimes, too.

I’m actually glad there are so many people that seem to truly despise my

existence and activity voice this distaste for me because I think it helps filter

people—true, of course, being a relative term. I’m willing to keep talking if

anybody is listening. I think conversation is the most enjoyable activity on

the planet. People assume that means I want to talk about “stupid girl shit”

like the mall and cells phones. My clothes are from the Salvation Army and

my cell phone flips. I don’t like overwhelmingly intelligent technology. I don’t

trust people enough. It’s a personal thing, I guess.

But suddenly, I have Optimus Prime for a phone and a damn-near impossible

Windows 8. Shit’s legit but man, it’s crazy.

I want to discuss the infinite amount of possibilities in the space beyond

what’s in front of our faces. I’m over all this shit, man. It seems like my

distaste for the bullshit has gotten to a new extreme. Maybe if the world

ended and we had the chance to start over, we could do things better the

next time around. I don’t know if I’d even survive the end of the world, but

I’d hope some elite mother fuckers did, you know? And I certainly hope we

don’t end our own world in fear it will end. That’s why I wish people would

stop fighting about stupid shit and just fucking enjoy life. I get that not

everyone is going to smoke weed and dance half-naked in fields, but all of

the happiest people I know have. So maybe people do need to just loosen up

a bit.

It’s so funny because I’ve actually become wound up pretty tight due to

people not being able to let go. I hold onto a lot, too. Clearly, I’ve been

holding onto a lot. I’m not going to deny that a hundo inna book. But now I’m

going to let go. I’m not going to get continuously obliterated so I can

continuously forget what the fuck has me continuously upset so I can

continuously sober up and remember only to put the act on repeat.

Fuck that. I am not about that life. I’d rather face my demons and move on

with it. Because I got it, baby.

FORGET THE LIVING / FORGIVE THE DEAD

Don’t use your trauma as an excuse to do whatever you want, and don’t

expect alcohol to be an excuse to get away with your decisions. Deal with it.

Deal with whatever it is that is holding you back so that it may propel you

forward. I’ve stared the Devil down in my submarine on wheels. I’m not

afraid of you. I’m not afraid of your past. I will judge you for what you’ve

done not based on the action itself but the thought behind the action. I can

live with reason if you carry respect. Without the respect, though, I can’t

exactly reason with you.

Not that I can tell you what to do. This is simply the best advice I have and

the exact route that lead me to it. The Universe posed a hypothetical

question and I gave it a literal answer because logic puzzles entertain me.

I just want to run wild through space. Can you reason with that? If I stab you

in the third eye, will you open it? Get me in bed and I’ll fuck you like a porn

star. Catch me in thought and I’ll mind fuck you to the moon and back. I will

stick my dick in your third eye if that’s what it takes to get it open.

It seems like most people I’ve met are too fascinated with the world around

them to keep it open. Some people really hate getting mind fucked by me

because some people are just quickies. I know whose minds to make love to,

or at least have some good sex with. And I know who is going to fail to

stimulate my brain with their quickies. Either way, I enjoy mind fucking. It’s

what I’m best at. The reason I do it is because I love people, though. I just

want people to think for themselves, but I think some people struggle with

that. They have opinions but it seems only in vain taste. I’m so curious about

the Universe. Why isn’t anyone else? If Earth is making us miserable, maybe

we should see if we can get the fuck out of here.

Oh, because you’re too busy being wasted. And racist. Seriously? It’s 2013

and you are still going to judge someone based upon their skin colour?

You’re going to make fun of me for having sex with a black guy? You’re going

to refer to every black person you see as a nigger? What the fuck is wrong

with you? And you think it’s the same when you say “nigger” and when I say

“nigga”? You’re fucking stupid. Hey, maybe it’s not my place to use that

word because I’m white. Let me know if I’m not allowed to do that. But the

way I see it, shit. I love black people. Like, if we have to go on stereotypes

right now, I love black people. And if we go on history, I hate white people.

Ma nigga’s my nigga regardless of colour because I like the word and I am all

about words but also, damn. How fucking cool is it to think a group of people

took a label given to them with not only a negative intention but with all

sorts of disrespect to turn it around and make something else of it?

That’s fucking awesome. Way to go “Black People”.

I hate the idea of oppression or segregation or racism in general. It is so

stupid. You need to realize that enemies do not have colours. Just as many

white people you know have probably treated you just as badly as the black

people you know but you probably don’t even know any black people

because if you did, you’d realize that not all black people are hood rats and

not all hood rats are black people.

But there are people who are still fucking racist.

Open your eyes and look at my Suburban city. It’s fucked up. It is sex, drugs,

and church songs. Granted, we have rock n roll and hip hop like any good

heathens would, but only because we didn’t like the songs we were singing.

We don’t exactly want what we’re given. I suppose nobody does. But doing

the same things over and over again in other different places is never going

to lead you to something you do want. Until you go and experience an

alternative lifestyle, you can’t really complain about what you have, right?

I think I have. And I think the thing is, we should just merge. We need to

collide. I’m the one wrapped up in planets. Everything has been saying

something is going to hit the Earth.

Could it be COMET COMMON SENSE?!

I’m trying to reason with every last detail of my life. It seems like every

person, every event, every moment, every experience of my life was a piece

to a puzzle and this is my puzzle put together. I don’t think it’s finished. But

I’m beginning to see a picture form as I attach piece to piece. I hope

someday it does get finished, even if my last piece is Death. Even if the

picture turns out to be a practical joke on me and I wasted my whole life

trying to put it together, I will be glad to have it finished.

But I definitely think I’ve gotten all the pieces there are to find in Suburbia.

I’m done here.

It’s probably my fault that I don’t get along with anyone. It will always all be

my own fault, in the end. As for anyone in anything. We make all our own

decisions. Maybe if girls made better decisions, guys wouldn’t be such dicks.

But maybe they make stupid decisions because guys are dicks. It doesn’t

matter. The female ultimately has the upper hand at the end of the day and

in the bedroom because they have the vagina. However, such a hollow

satisfaction to be able to see a man on his knees behind closed doors when

you are publically humiliated for all to see.

Oh, fuck me. I don’t shut the fuck up so fuck me the shut up. I’d prefer it in

the brain because that’s what really gets me going but if it has to be my

cunt, fine. But don’t think these gorgeous, flaming lips will ever stop spitting

fire. If I don’t reach another dimension, they’ll love me in Hell because I’m

pretty sure Heaven doesn’t want shit to do with me.

Have you ever thought maybe Hell isn’t a place where you are punished for

sin, but a place you continue to sin? According to your rules, God rules

Heaven and Satan rules Hell. The reason the two worlds exist is because God

and Satan disagreed. We play the game of Life and the way we play

determines whose team we will be on in the game of death. In this theory I’m

making up as I go along, either Satan is a total psychotic sadist or there is

more to this story than people want to admit. Why would you believe

breaking God’s rules means you are punished by someone whose rules you

didn’t break? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would God banish you to

Hell because you committed sins against him if the punisher awaiting you in

Hell encourages you to sin? Wouldn’t Satan then reward sinners for doing as

he wished?

God isn’t in control, here. The playing field of Earth is split fifty-fifty. Just like

everything else. So God takes half and the Devil takes the other half. They

have control over those who believe in them, so in Death they are divided

into teams. Then there are those who do not believe, and stay where they

are without being noticed.

Well, by most people, anyway. That’s Purgatory, when neither side can take

you. I think you can get to space from Purgatory. Like the Star.

So Earth is pretty neutral because in religious-based theory, we are a divided

people: Sinners and Saints. Right? So Satan gets Sinners and God gets Saints

and the neutralist realists get left out in Purgatory. That’s the idea. I guess

there’s also the idea that Hell is layered. I’m a big fan of layers. When it gets

cold, I layer up. I totally believe in layers. And lairs! Like Paige’s Magic Lair.

And dungeons and lairs are pretty similar, so Roxy’s Sex Slave Dungeon is

sort of like a Lair, too!

LOL Oops! Gettin’ lost in Lolly Land LY

Not that we ever really left…

But I don’t think I believe in Layers of Hell. I’m pretty sure that’s a Biblical lie.

No offense. I’m just thinkin’ it is all level. There’s no way God and Satan

aren’t equally powerful if people are left to decide who reigns supreme

because even if we don’t worship the fucking Devil because I don’t worship

the Devil—I’ve just met the fucker on a couple occasions, feel me? I know the

guy. I happen to live a lifestyle that he approves of and God doesn’t, so I’m

thinking that when it comes time, I’ll be going to Hell. It’s not because I don’t

like God, but I do think he’s a bullshitter.

If religion is true, then we can’t be told what to do because it’s not up to

them whose team we are on. It’s not about the faith instilled in us; it’s about

the feeling within us. It is in your soul, not in your body. What good is going

to church if you’re a complete bitch all the time? What does it matter if you

don’t go to church if you follow the teachings of the religion? And if you are

forced to go to church, does it even count? If you are feared into believing

something but don’t want to, isn’t that just as bad as not believing it?

I think the only way the idea of Heaven and Hell can work is if there is a

place in Hell like Heaven and a place in Heaven like Hell. Same rules that

apply to Everything else. There’s good in bad and bad in good. Assuming

Heaven is total peace and freedom is assuming Hell is but the same. In this

idea, there would be a place in Heaven you were punished if you were to

break a rule there and maybe in Hell, there’s a place you can take a break

from the lifestyle. Earth is not the land of either God or Satan. That is not

determined until we die. So until then, there can’t really be rules, other than

those enforced by the Control of people. Only we know the motive behind

our actions. You can’t tell me, but I could tell you. And here, I have.

I don’t make hidden agendas. I make game plans. Hidden agendas only

benefit the beholder. Anyone is welcome to be in on game plans!

LOL Number four is always hit the cash machine LY

I don’t believe any person can actually hold any power over another person

because we are all equal. I don’t believe something you don’t know is there

should hold power over you, either. So why base your Life on something out

of your realm? If anything, they have control over our Death. So we should

enjoy Life—while we can guarantee it is ours—however the fuck we want. But

don’t think you will ever escape Death. Don’t wanna die? Don’t do things

that are going to kill you. And don’t think not doing drugs means you follow

those rules. Cars kill just as many people as drugs do. You get in a car

everyday of your life. If you risk it for the sake of your job, you might as well

risk it for your enjoyment.

I haven’t tried everything, but I’ve tried enough. I’m still here. Plus, I think

we’ve all contemplated suicide at some time or another. We all have our

reasons and here, none of us have done it. You can quit the game, or you

can die trying to win. But when you die, you lose.

LOL Kill yourself or die trying LY

Do what you want and don’t worry about what I’m doin’. Maybe what I’m

doing isn’t all that bad when you disregard the rules I’m supposed to follow.

Based on my rules, I’m living the right way. And since it’s my Life, I’m gonna

follow my rules. Does that make me stubborn? I think it makes me human.

Do no harm to others and you can do whatever you want because your life is

no more or less valuable than mine.

Is this empowerment? Or is it independence? Maybe both?

Regardless of what you want to call it, not enough people feel it. Especially

not enough females. Most girls become what you want them to be so that

they can get you to do what they want. Or, they do what they can to make

you want them to get what they want—even if you are not what they want.

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Am I the only one that feels

sex should be enjoyed and not turned into a game? Probably. I’m just a

myth.

Where are the beautiful women of the world?

No one wants to admit that we exist. That is how we have become mythical

creatures. Women wish they were us, men wish to have us, but we cannot be

imitated or tamed. We are a threat to society because we are young,

intelligent, and ruthless. We are not supposed to be able to outsmart anyone

while being gawked at by everyone. We are a show the world has never

seen. We have come at a time in which women can be heard but are not

saying much. We are everything no one wants us to be. Any room we walk

into becomes a stage, and the show is to be ourselves. When we leave it, we

are called for an encore. For some reason, people stare in awe; be it out of

curiosity, admiration, or total fear. They are mystified by the faces we don

and the words that fly out of our mouths, better composed and at faster

speeds than any other pretty girls they’ve ever encountered. We the women

that are more in touch with outer space and Mother Nature than any person

they have ever met. And of course, the biggest and baddest of bitches that

are still walking the planet. We were not born vain, nor do we mean to be.

We simply have come to learn over time that we are one in millions and two

in the same. We never thought much of ourselves until we realized the world

around us completely adored us.

…Oh. Us…

“Let your tracks be lost in the dark and snow”

A LONG AND STRANGE TRIP, INDEED

“Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize we’re floating in space? Do you realize that happiness makes you cry? Do you realize that

everyone you know someday will die?”

So, I guess that’s the story of my life. Here I am just Truckin’. But goddamn, are my legs getting tired from Truckin’ in these heavy boots.

It was always us. It will always be us. This is just what I have to do right now.

I hope you understand it someday. I believe you will. I remember what it was

like. But because I remember, I never want to do it again. Do what you have

to. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I know you’ll come back to me, my

American Beauty.

Sometimes, I sit back and I reflect on the time that has escaped me year

after year of my existence. It feels like everything up until now felt like life,

but sometimes I wonder how much of my life has been lived. I work a

minimum wage job and I suck at it. I have been completely drained of all the

energy I once had, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I wake up to work

and when I don’t work, I don’t really wake up but I hate waking up for work.

It’s a difficult conundrum to deal with. I’ve tried so many different solutions

but this is really the only one I can think of. If you made it this far, I really

appreciate the fact that you cared enough about what I had to say.

Truthfully, I just needed to get all these thoughts out of my fucking head. It

seems as though I am twenty-four-hour thought factory but it’s beginning to

look more like Chernobyl than fucking Coca-Cola.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do anymore. Lately, I feel like I am Yoshimi

and I don’t exactly know what to do about that. Well, I know exactly what to

do about that. It’s just not up to me to decide that I’m Yoshimi, no matter

how much it appears that way. I mean, hasn’t he been looking this whole

time? He’s been singing to her for decades. She never came.

LOL That’s because I’m stuck in Suburbia LY

It would be so cool if it all came true. You can’t make the lives worth the loss;

but I think we could make the loss worth the lives. I feel like I’ve seen how it

should happen. It’s like he walked me through the worst thing of my life,

even if I was sleeping. I want to believe in visions. I think it would be hard to

deny some type of telepathy or psychic ability but perhaps I have peered

into the future. Or maybe it is only the future if I make it so. I don’t know, am

I controlling my own destiny or am I just totally fucking nuts? It just makes

me think it’s not over yet and I think it is much healthier for the head to have

some hope in the moments after the darkest hour.

I promised this girl I would make it okay someday and that day hasn’t come.

It’s not too much better than it ever was. It’s not over until it is okay. I simply

hope I can make it good again, but I will be damn sure to make this okay. It

is the very least I can do. I’m not sure how to make it okay because after

months of trying to make it okay, it ended in silence. But I do know what

would make it good. It is just unfortunately out of my control…

It’s in his laser hands…

And if those laser hands would align the planets and connect the Sun and the

Moon to tell the tale of Life and Death in words of Gods, she wouldn’t be the

only one that would feel better. This whole sick city would feel better. I bet

there are other cities like ours out there somewhere. I think they could

appreciate hearing the stories because they can relate to them. That was my

whole point, anyway. I surely hope someone out there knows what I’m going

through. Hey, dude. I’m here for you. The difference between us is the

attitude. When all Hell breaks loose, you gotta find some Heaven. There is a

balance to maintain. We need good with weight because this was the

heaviest shit.

I won’t allow these slaughtered hearts to die in battle. They will go beyond

surviving. They will Live again. They will beat again, they will smile again.

They will even love again. I’ll be sure of it. The only way to deal with your

issues is to fix them. Don’t just use them as an excuse. Why hide behind

what you should leave behind? Wear your scars loud and proud and scream

a little—you know, go ahead and freak the fuck out. But do it with a smile.

Take all you can from Everything that happens and be happy it happened.

Find a reason to be happy it happened. For me, I always think of how happy

other people could be when I’m sad. There are times I am selfish when I am

upset, but I just try to think of every loss as some other win. There’s a

balance. There is hope at rock bottom.

The only way to get to the top is if you start on your ass at the bottom. You

have climb Mount Shit during a shitstorm to get to the top but waiting there

is all your wildest dreams, alive and waiting for you. It’s the game you play.

Life, we call it? If you get through all the bad, there will be some good

waiting for you when it’s finally over. It won’t ever be easy, but someday, it

will be. When it starts to get too hard, people settle where they are and they

stop reaching for the top. If I’m still going after all this shit, there is nothing

that is going to stop me.

I know I wouldn’t be where I am without the two of you and I think everyone

would feel better seeing that for themselves. To turn hate into love is some

of the most powerful energy you can produce! It is so hard to ignore

something as beautiful as that. He’s dead, so it’s or job. This is all I ever

think about. It’s hard not to think about her. How could I stop? I made a

promise and I intend on keeping it because I don’t think anyone else has

promised her anything in a long time. It takes extraordinary happiness to

cure extraordinary sadness.

I would love to prove that Everything happens for a reason. I would love to

prove some of my hypothesizes, much like yours, into theories by making

these words come true.

There’s always the Wyck.

I often think I should have held onto the love I had if that’s all I really want. I

should have graciously accepted the happy life I was handed that wouldn’t

have been as happy as it looked. I would have been infected with

Suburbanite. I don’t actually regret it because I still don’t believe you have to

take what you are given. I believe we have the ability to change it. I guess

it’s just funny to think of how many possible outcomes there were to my life.

I could have been my ex-boss’s daughter if God existed. He would have

made me a full-blood Italian. I often think of these different lives I could have

had and how in ways, they could have been easier or something. But no

matter what I think it could have been, I never think, “I wish it would have

been.”

It hasn’t always been that way. When I was younger, I spent too much of my

time wishing I was anything but me. Now, I couldn’t be happier about it. I

know I have wronged people, but I have apologized. If I have the forgiveness

of those I have wronged, then I am at peace. I don’t need to be forgiven by

someone who has nothing to do with it. I never mean to hurt people. Maybe

people don’t mean to hurt me either. I find that statement hard to apply to

absolutely everyone because I do think some people just don’t care if they

hurt other people.

I could be wrong. I may just be paying for my mistakes. Perhaps the

shambles my life is in is because I chose not to have it simple. I complicated

my life as it is now. I want to say other people have played a role; done me

wrong or made me crazy. At the end of every day, though, it is my fault. It is

all entirely my fault. I may have not wanted or asked or physically made

things happen myself, but I am the only reason my life is the way it is. It’s a

bummer, but it’s the truth. It is a sad reality most people will never realize, I

think. At least I can be thankful for that. For actually knowing not about the

world around me, but the space above me—the Everything I am a part of.

The grander scheme; the larger pictures. It makes living the right now here

on planet Earth so incredibly difficult, but I hope—assuming I don’t lose all of

it—that someday, it will be worth it. It will pay off having this bank of insanity

or knowledge in my head. It could possibly be a good thing in the long-run,

when the painting is finished. But life the way it is… Extremely difficult.

I have, over time, become bored with the world around me. This had led me

to become more in tune with the space around the world I have become

bored of. I’m so unsatisfied with everything and everyone. Maybe that makes

me a stupid, picky bitch. Maybe I should learn to shut my mouth and not

complain because everyone deals with the things I deal with, right? I’m not

any different or any more special than anyone else, why do I feel a need to

write a fucking book of my problems when we all have problems?

I don’t know.

I guess I am looking for anyone to tell me they understand where I’m coming

from. Maybe I’m waiting for someone to save me. People say we can only

save ourselves but I think that’s bullshit. A solitary man stays alive but a

group of men does thrive. I’ve been miserable for a long time and I have

thoroughly enjoyed life and I’m finding myself miserable again. What really

gets me is how miserable everyone around me is, too! Why is everybody so

fucking miserable?! And if we’re all so miserable, why aren’t we doing

anything about it? Life is hard, life is hard. It sucks and then you die. Really?

Is that it? Because I don’t think anyone is allowed to tell me how to live my

life when we’re all as ignorant as the next.

We are consciously here once. This one time, we get to be on planet Earth.

Maybe we carry on when we move forward. Maybe we’ve travelled far to get

here. But hey, can we enjoy it while we last? We are terrified of the end of

the world but why? Everything fucking sucks, anyway. The economy is

crashing, the Control is failing, and people are wasting like we’re not having

a tomorrow as it is. Are we seriously going to be the end of our own world? If

that’s the case, then what the fuck was the point?

Anybody out there?

Anybody?

Anybody?Because I’m really sick of feeling so alone when I know the biggest problem

among people is that exact thing. I’ve known a lot of people over these

twenty years. When you can’t keep friends longer than six months, you end

up knowing a lot of fucking people. Sometimes, I turn into a bit of a recluse

because people disappoint me so much. I bet I disappoint people, too. I

disappoint myself.

But even when I want nothing to do with anyone, even when I want to be

alone and die, I always come around. What makes me feel this way is the

exact thing that makes me feel better: People. When I feel like I am nothing,

it is because I have no one. Some people find this to be annoying because

they see it as clingy. I’m told that I’m needy. I’m sorry; I just don’t find any

sort of technology or activity or anything on this planet more interesting and

entertaining than people! It is assumed that it is because I need love.

“I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else.” Isn’t that

right, Morrissey?

The thing is, I don’t feel a need to be loved as strongly as I feel a need to

love. That’s why I have loved people who haven’t loved me back. At this

point, it would be nice to love and be loved back, but it’s never been

necessary. I just want people to love because I look at this world we live in

and I see absolutely no love involved with it. Did anyone ever stop to think

I’m so paranoid because we live in fear? Maybe that’s why marijuana causes

paranoia—because it’s ILLEGAL so we’re paranoid about getting caught! Shit,

that’s the only thing that makes this paranoid schizophrenic feel not so

fucking paranoid, but you didn’t like the hemp industry beating out the oil

company so you made the plant illegal. It’s totally okay to get drunk enough

to die but no, you may not get high!

Maybe I’ll move to Colorado when I’m twenty-one. Even though I’ve been

thinking about not smoking, anyway. I’d still like the option to do so if I so

please.

I’d rather partake in a fun, social activity with people that keep me livin’ than

be zonked out on prescription meds. Is that such a horrible thing? I’d rather

learn to live with my flaws than pretend like they don’t exist. I’ve never seen

a psychologist because they’d probably tell me things I already know about

myself, and that would more than likely lead to a psychiatrist to put me on

anti-psychotics. Am I actually crazy for not wanting to not feel, even if my

emotions could someday kill me?

We all have problems and what I’ve learned over time is that the only way to

really work out these problems and figure out solutions to them is to get

them out of your head. I had to get all of this shit out of my head. It’s funny,

because this book is what I think about on a day-to-day basis. It’s a lot to

handle, and I’d like to move on with my life. But in order to do that, I had to

get it all out of my head. And I figured instead of overwhelming some

therapist with all this, I’d share with everyone because I really didn’t have

anything better to do. All I am are words of thought.

Does that make me a philosopher? If so, what does philosophy matter to

people with the Internet?

I don’t know what to do. I live for people, so I guess I want people to tell me

what to do. I’d love to be a therapist. I think I’d be pretty good at it, all things

considered. But if I have to go to college to prove myself to you, then I guess

I’ll never be a therapist because I can’t do college. I tried. I failed. Maybe I

give up too easily, but it’s probably mostly that I freak out too easily. Maybe

someday they can medicate me and I’ll go to college to get a degree to

medicate more people with problems and live a life I have thus far fought

against and ultimately forfeit everything I believe in…

Or would you help save my soul and let me be your therapist now?

Because we could all use someone to talk to. I’d love to be the person you

talk to. I have a really hard time getting people to open up to me and trust

me enough to talk to me about the way they feel or the thoughts they never

share as a friend because friends these days don’t do that. I’m so interested

in what you have to say. I’d so love to know how you feel. I know and now

you know how crazy my mind can be. Is yours like that? Do you have

opinions like mine or as strong as mine? Is there anything you want to do

that you’re not doing? Because there’s a whole mess of things I’d rather be

doing than what I’m doing now.

I could easily go to college, get a degree in psychology, and make money

being a therapist. I could make even more money if I became a psychiatrist

and prescribed people drugs. But instead of allowing me to do this, I first

have to prove I can do everything else. In order to help with people’s

emotional damage and mental issues, I have to pass a Pre-Calculus and

Trigonometry class. I have to prove that I can do something I don’t

understand in order to do something I already understand. In high school, I

took Sociology and General Psychology. In my year at community college, I

took entry-level Sociology and Psychology. Two years after dropping out of

college due to failing a math class, I helped a girl get through witnessing an

axe-murdering. After two weeks with me, the therapist she then saw told her

she hadn’t expected her to be as far along as she was. Needless to say, she

didn’t return to a therapist until I was no longer by her side.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a better therapist than this woman. But I will say, I

was most definitely more prepared to handle that situation than she was. Or,

I did such a sufficient job in the time between the incident and the time she

saw the therapist that the therapist was no longer necessary. What was

supposed to be twelve sessions was condensed in two weeks straight with

me. Do I really need a certification from someone who took longer than I

have to be able to do a job I am more than capable of? Especially because

she wasn’t my first client.

I used to be as satisfied with being a waitress as it would satisfy me to be a

psychologist. I’d sever good food until I die. But I can’t deal with the

ignorance of people in addition to the over processed chemical bullshit that

these ignorant people eat. I couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe I have too much

anger, but I can’t stand pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve spent my

life trying to figure out who I am. There is nothing you can do to shake me.

I’ll follow your rules to the best of my ability but if I can’t see the sense is

something, I’m probably not going to do it. That’s why I can’t keep jobs long.

I’m a Taurus and I’m too headstrong, I suppose. And overtime, my life has

complicated itself and myself to a point that seems almost irreversible.

That’s why I would love to channel this anger into something positive, like

music.

I think the only thing I like as much as I like people is music, but I prefer

music with people. If I didn’t have music like the Flaming Lips and Peter

Gabriel and the Flaming Lips and the Grateful Dead and the Flaming Lips and

Jane’s Addiction and the Flaming Lips and Janis Joplin and the Flaming Lips

and Pink Floyd and the Flaming Lips and Brand New and the Flaming Lips

and the Format or Fun. and the Flaming Lips and Nick Cave and the Flaming

Lips and Rush and the Flaming Lips and Blind Melon and the Flaming Lips

and Paula Cole and the Flaming Lips and Flogging Molly and the Flaming Lips

and Gogol Bordello and the Flaming Lips and Lloyd Cole and the Flaming Lips

and Joe Pug and the Flaming Lips and Amy Cook and the Flaming Lips and

Animal Collective and the Flaming Lips and Wilco and the Flaming Lips and

String Cheese Incident and the Flaming Lips and Jeff Mangum and the

Flaming Lips and Daniel Johnston and the Flaming Lips and Tyler, the Creator

and the Flaming Lips Flaming Lips Flaming Lips…

I’d be dead by now. When I don’t have people, I have music. It keeps me

sane. When I feel like no one I know understands me, there is always a song

to play that speaks the thoughts in my head or the feelings of my heart. I

love it. I love and appreciate them all for at some time being able to describe

my insides with their instruments and lyrics. Like saying, “Hey, it really is

going to be okay,” when no one else could say it. But it seems like there is

no one better at it than the Flaming Lips. Wayne’s words have matched my

thoughts better than any other in my life. There are often times I find myself

thinking things the people I know would never consider or at least be able to

verbalize. There have been a few times I’ve tried to explain some new idea

that pops into my head, but in order to get to a new thought with me, you

kind of have to get through all the other thoughts in order to understand it if

you don’t already think the way that I do. And the train of thoughts leading

up to a new thought is literally this book so catching someone up to a new

idea has been damn near impossible. I find myself getting my thoughts

further and further away from people and it sucks because I need people.

But I manage to make it through these dark, winding roads to nowhere by

listening to the space rock that is the Flaming Lips because I can hear him

sing about the thoughts I’ve had and it makes me feel all right knowing that

even if I don’t know anyone who thinks the way that I do, at least Wayne

Coyne has.

When I get lost alone in Lolly Land, the only light I have are the sounds of

like-minded matter of madness. What is the Light that you have?

I think it would be fun to make music but I don’t think it would be as fun to

do alone. I mean, I think everything is better with people. We’re all in this

together. I’d like to make something of it. I love to sing, I love to write, but

that’s as far as I go. I know so many talented musicians but I can’t seem to

get any of them to want to make music with me. Maybe I’m not assertive

enough, but I guess I have pretty bad stage fright. Ha, right? I have

confidence in my words but I do not have confidence in my voice. I love it,

though. I love to sing. I love to jam but I don’t play anything that jams except

me but I like jammin’ with people but I got no people to jam with so I’m not

jammin’.

Hey dude, wanna jam?

Probably not because I probably suck even though some people say they like

the way I sing. They think it’s good or whatever. I can write a sick ass rap

verse, too, but I ain’t gotta beat. Plus, the journals I write said verses in get

taken or lost. Most people tell me I should be a ghostwriter. I guess I could

sell my songs for money or whatever but then they aren’t really mine and I

put a lot of me into the things I write. It’s wasted poetry. I’d be selling my

soul and probably my persona as well. A perceived persona, anyway. I am

what I am and that’s all I can be. It almost seems like the only people that

want to help me out are the dudes that want to fuck me.

I am too many things for me to handle and all the colours that you see. Or

maybe I’m nothing. Maybe I am just a waitress, doomed to hop from floor to

floor the rest of my tiring life. Maybe I should jump on a pole while I still can.

I mean, if all I am to anyone is sex, I might as well make money off of it.

Beats working my body into a pulp for minimum wage. Want me to take my

clothes off? Fuck it, gimme a dollar or two and you can see my tits. Who

hasn’t seen ‘em, anyway? Maybe I’ll snap like so many of them do. Maybe

someday, I’ll buy myself a dick and become the Man.

Maybe, I will lose all fucking hope, if that’s what you think I should do.

Because my hope is in you and if you are telling me not to have hope in you

or faith humanity, then, well…

Maybe I should shut up and kill myself already.

The happily haunted could easily be happily haunting.

Or I could be the happily haunted happily hunting…

No. Not deer, dumbass.

Or, seriously, maybe I should stop bitching and get in the line everyone else

is standing in.

I don’t want to have to give up but I am so close to giving up. I can’t figure

out why I suddenly can’t care about anything at all. I have spent so much of

my time believing in everything and loving every second and now I’m

smoking cigarettes and driving recklessly and not even efficient in words

anymore. And I don’t know why because I prefer to love everything. I

suppose I’m becoming everyone. Or I am going to fall in line. I’m starting to

lose faith in dreams because I am falling behind even in falling in line or

immobile and free falling down a rabbit hole of ideas. No matter what I do

and I’m so fucking lost. How have I gotten so lost?

I think if you ran this course, you’d be pretty lost, too.

I have approximately six months before my life explodes and starts over

again. And again. And again. I can’t say it would faze me if the world did the

same, though I do think it would be a damn shame. I suppose this is my

attempt to change the way things are, even if that sounds like an impossible,

silly task. I can’t seem to function properly to fit as a piece in this puzzlingly

society, so maybe I shouldn’t be a part of it. I’m okay with that. If I am alive

to speak and no one wants to hear what I have to say, then I’ll go. No hard

feelings. I’m kind of a cunt. I’d rather be a bitch than a pussy; but I’d rather

be a cunt than a bitch.

(Hey, girls. If you want dudes to stop making you feel like shit, stop allowing

them to do it. Is there a word you can call a man and offend him? No. He

doesn’t care what you call him. Most of the time, it’s true. So why let

something he says offend you? So he calls you a cunt. Shit, maybe you’re

being a cunt. That more than likely means you were speaking your mind or

said something really fucking cold. Either you were holding your own or said

something really funny. Come on. Wouldn’t you rather be a well-respected,

well-versed, well-educated cunt than a spineless, mindless pussy-bitch?)

Everyone tells you things change and people change and life will change but

it all seems too familiar. I am who I have always been and yet I no longer

exist in the life that I once had and continues. It seems like I keep finding

myself in the same situations I have already been in but with different

people, or I watch people get into the situations I’ve been in. I’ve taken

everyone’s advice and now I’m in the middle of nowhere. People try to tell

me what life is or what it’s like or what the fuck ever “they” say and it seem

like it’s all a bunch of bullshit to keep us living in a vicious cycle that slowly

wears us down.

I just want to break the cycle. I’ve gotten a pretty damn good idea of what is

going on because I’ve not stopped pay attention to detail since I left my

mother’s fucking womb.

Ew. I just said my mother’s fucking womb and I mean my mother’s cuss word

womb but wow, is that a disturbing phrase…

People don’t want to believe anything I say. I’m some twenty-year-old girl,

what the fuck do I know? Well. I don’t. But what do you know that’s any

better? What is the use for knowledge when we don’t know what reality is? In

which case, what is the point of putting value to any of it? The way I see it—

put in the simple terms I have ever thought it in—is that I’m a human being

and as a human being, the most important thing in my life is life itself. The

only thing I know is that I am here. I am what we consider to be alive, though

we don’t even know that much! We created this world ourselves. I think it’s

pretty impressive. Of course, we don’t know the origins of the story books we

refer to as text. But I suppose now we have made it impossible to lie about

history. That is a very interesting thought. We can now keep track of

absolutely everything that happens.

“We have the technology.”

We have created a system with our grand ability of invention. I appreciate

the absolute pleasure I indulge in on a day-to-day basis. It would be hard to

go without all of my possessions, though I would be willing to try. That’s

more than most people will say. People are obsessed with their possessions.

They love money. They love the things money can buy. They love the

technology behind the money they spend and vice versa. They love their

stuff. And as much fun as it all is; as cool of an experience as it is to have an

endless supply of things for every thought and desire I could possibly

imagine; at the end of the day, I don’t really care.

If I don’t have people to enjoy these things with, what is the point of them?

If all there is to life is being alive, then I don’t want to enjoy things to myself.

I want to enjoy life. Isn’t that why America was created? And what better way

to enjoy life than to enjoy it with other life? I guess if the most important

thing to me is my life, the most important thing to my life is other lives. If my

life is the most valuable possession to me, why wouldn’t your life be your

most valuable possession to me? I don’t know, there’s nothing more I can

appreciate than my life.

LOL FUCK MY LIFE LY

I want to cry. Sometimes, I get lost, but I always come back. Always. I don’t

really have a choice. I have too much life to live to get thrown into a box I

cannot escape. But this is why I want to give up. Am I coming back just to

get more fucked up on it while everyone gets fucked up on drugs? If that’s all

I’m going to come back to every time, then why do I still come back? You

would think that if I was simple enough to love life more than anything on

the planet, I would be happy with just being alive. I guess I am. For now. I do

love the nights I have with the homeboys. It’s something I can live for. It’s

something I do live for, or one of those reasons I’m still alive.

Why?

People, man. People! I love being around people who can hold a conversation

with their beer. I’m so sick of drunken drama, it’s unreal. I’m so sick of

people’s favourite thing being alcohol or whatever other fucking vice or

phone or car or god damn. I’m so sick of people caring about the stupidest

fucking bullshit that I barely cared about as a teenager. Or even a child. No

matter what I’ve done in life, the answer to every puzzle I have ever come

across is people.

But it usually goes,

1. “My Self”

2. “My Shit”

3. “My Slut”

4. “Maybe you”

Yes, I’m a hoarder, but it’s because I love people and think Toy Story is like,

the greatest trilogy ever made. But when people leave, I still have the stuff

they gave me. Or things that remind them of me. And I don’t like to waste

like everyone else does. I save things because I don’t like how much trash

we have produced, and I’d rather not contribute to it. Though it is just sitting

in trash piles in my room rather than a landfill or whatever so it doesn’t

really even matter, right? I always thought it would be cool to reuse the stuff

I have, but the amount of stuff v. space for stuff makes being an object artist

very difficult. If only I had a space, I could just put all my things to use again,

I dream. Or I could even be a real Hattress if I had the room! But I’m trapped

in my room with my stuff because space costs bucks I ain’t got. It’s a fuckin’

suck but I guess it doesn’t really matter because life is going to continue to

go on as is, anyway, and any feeble attempt I have at saving or changing

anything is astronomically stacked against me.

But here I am writing a book about trying. Isn’t anyone else willing to try? Or

no? If it’s no, please tell me so. I don’t want to put in anymore effort if no one

else wants to put in effort. I’d like to spend as much time as possible on this

planet and enjoy this wondrous, mysterious thing that is our lives but if none

of you are going to give a shit about the planet part, how much can I give a

shit about you who come from it and can’t respect it, much like women in

general? How am I gonna stand around and give respect that doesn’t seem

to exist in your society? Fuck that and fuck you. I hope you do blow up.

But then if you don’t, maybe I can get some land and just collect those few

people in the world that do have some respect. If I could be on this planet

away from all the bullshit, I’d be okay with the bullshit. Like a commune, you

know? I’d be okay with that. But being stuck in the middle of all the bullshit

is deteriorating my brain at a deadly rate. Deadly, bitch. You feel me?

So I find people really aren’t that great because I’m all about them. I’m not

saying I’m totally obsessed with everyone I meet and people should be

totally obsessed with me when they meet me. I read people in thirty

seconds. I know them in five minutes. I know if I want to waste anymore time

talking to them in twenty. I know what I like and I know how to tell if you are

what I like. What I like are people who like the same things I do, such as

people or brains or books or music or ideas or whatever. You don’t have to

have identical taste or the same exact thoughts, but have thoughts. If you

love any band as much as I love the Flaming Lips, I’ll give it a listen.

If you love anything like I love Everything, you are worth loving. Problem is,

most people don’t.

I’m so lonely without people to love but no one wants me to love them

because people don’t know how to interpret a love like mine when they have

grown not to love after being told it isn’t real just because heartbreak co-

exists with love.

God, I’m sorry I saw love at first sight. Boy, is it a sight to see. It was the

most beautiful thing I’ve ever looked at and the best thing I have ever felt. I

chased love right off a cliff and into your bed.

But what did you do?

Kick me out of your bed.

OUUUUUCH! Back at rock bottom? Startin’ to feel like home. Who wants

to join me? No one, but that doesn’t mean they won’t end up there, anyway.

I look around and I see so many lonely people. Or people who aren’t alone

but are so unhappy with who they are with they would rather just be alone.

Hey! I’m right here and you’re over there and our whole world is standing in front of me, begging me to do something and I’m not. I’m just waiting. And for what? You to kick me in the teeth again? Things seem to get better but then they seem to go nowhere. What is keeping me? Why do I still care so fucking much? And why is he the only one that doesn’t care about me? Why am I the only one he doesn’t care about? I’m not myself these days, I’m not myself, I’m not. I’m on an island. Alone except

for the occasional tourist visit. And why? For what? I could go home with them, but I don’t in hopes that you’ll come find me. I’m calling loudly, clearly. Just for you. I’m here for you! I’m here to help and be something to everyone but I am here, I was made for you. I’m at a great loss. I have suffered the greatest loss. Yours. Ours.

I’m just trying to help the hurting because I know what it is like to hurt and I

know I would have liked some but no one else seems to think this way so I’m

just swimmin’.

I’m swimming and searching.

I was swimming and wandering but now I’m swimming and searching. I

didn’t need to be anywhere but here, wherever I was, for a long time. It could

have been anything with anyone and I was either dealing or content. Now, I

just wish there was a place for me to land. I wish there was anywhere I

belonged. Somewhere I could do as I please and say what I want without

being thrown out or turned away. I’m searching for something that doesn’t

seem to exist. I am meant to be alone. Forever. Sometimes, I think I don’t

even deserve cats because I’ve pushed so many away already.

If I live for people and people don’t care that I’m alive, that’s fine. I don’t

have to be alive. I got too much going on in this head, though, to get through

this alone. And on top of my life feeling like an endless pile of shit, I really

can’t stand the shit that I see. It is baffling to me that people can be so

sorely selfish. Goddamn. So many people ignore what they feel and

substitute it with a substance. They would rather ignore and deny the life

that happens before them and live instead content with nothing. With

working enough to get by and be able to buy their barricade of choice. Why

deny the life happening before you?

I seriously give up. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m one of the only

people left on the planet that isn’t completely selfish. Or am I the most

selfish?! I try so hard to be as considerate as possible of other people, but

whoever it is that I consider is usually out to fuck me or ends up fucking me,

anyway. I’m really sick of trying to do the right thing—like care about

anything or be honest about everything—and being treated like I’m the

biggest bitch in the entire Universe. I’m not a bitch. My heart is in its right

place. But so many people have been so mean and so cold that I feel like I

have to be a bitch to stay alive. All I want is for people to be happy without

hurting others because more often than not, I’m the one being hurt. It hurts

to live here. I feel like I might not be the only one, but maybe the only one

with the courage to say it out loud.

Nothing I do has intent, but I have good intentions. I want to make people

happy even when I’m not happy because I guess it sort of makes me happy

and I just really don’t see the point in life if we aren’t happy. Why be alive if

you don’t really enjoy it? I don’t see a point to it and yet we’re all doing it. I

don’t want everyone to die or anything, but I would love to see some change

in something, even if it is just attitude.

Maybe I don’t need to eat until I want to throw up. Perhaps we can share this

meal. You never know who might be starving.

Maybe I won’t flick this guy off even though he cut me off. I’ve probably done

it before. You never know where they could be going.

Maybe I shouldn’t see him ever again. My life is probably better off without

him. You never know who might be waiting.

Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps someone can make things rights. You never

know what you could be helping.

I’d like to make things right. I’d like to make things right with everyone I

have wronged. I’d like to make things right in the world, even if it does seem

like an impossible task. I can’t help but believe anything is possible due to all

the improbability that has become my life.

I can’t figure out what I’ve done so wrong in my life. Or what is so wrong

about me. I don’t understand how I get from place to place when I don’t try

to go anywhere except the places I never end up. Why is that? What is wrong

with me? How is it that I cannot seem to keep anyone within arm’s length?

Within my head? All I ask is for another human being. I have been

surrounded by robots for too long. I don’t get along with robots. I need souls.

I need people that have souls. Not robots. I need someone who will

understand that sometimes, I need visits in Lolly Land. No one wants to be in

Lolly Land. I don’t even want to be there. But I’m stuck here. And on

occasion, it gets really busy and there’s too much activity to not be shared

with someone. It’s a lot for any one person. I’m one person. I’m a mermaid

that lives in the sea, swimming from one rock to the next island and so on.

So on and so far I go, deeper than anyone can swim without a fin. It’s hard to

breathe underwater. I live in the ocean. Many get the impression that I think

I’m above everyone. They think I’m up high in the sky, soaring. I wish. I only

wish I had wings. I only wish I could get out of this cold water.

My mind has fallen into retirement. There is a child-like whimsy that exists in

my Lolly heart but there is so much pain in my Roxy head. My body, clearly,

cannot be more than twenty because that’s how long it has been around. But

my mind, it’s in retirement. I have finished life. What now? A new one? I go in

hopes to find something greater to do with my time than sit around and not

be just unappreciated but begin to depreciate. There is no point in staying

where I am. I never belonged here and I know it because I should be

elsewhere. And I hope I’ll get there.

Sometimes, it is hard to be friends with people who want to see me as a

friend but should see me as a therapist. It is hard to convince anyone that I

am the therapist they should see. In fact, it’s hard to convince people I’m a

therapist. My formal education extends one year into community college

where I received no degrees or certification. I am not backed by society or

sponsored by The Man. I have no training to do this job and no one has ever

told me how it is supposed to be done. In fact, I’ve never even seen a

therapist myself. So why the fuck should I and DO I think I make a better

therapist than most the people you give your money to?

Life. Can you believe it?

We are all created equally but we are not all the same. As human beings, we

are the same. We are made of the same matter, the same consciousness; we

are of one science and one spirit. We are all the same, in essence, but we

vary from form to form. What separates us from other animals is what in turn

separates us from ourselves. We have brains that are capable of cognitive

thinking so we have presumed a position at the top of the pyramid. We have

created a world of our own. I suppose, in ways, other animals have done the

same. A beaver’s dam isn’t man-made, but I’ll be damned if a man didn’t

make one bigger. We have conquered a good portion of the land on this

planet. We have made it very clear to everyone around us what belongs to

humans and what belongs to the rest of nature. In a way, we have isolated

ourselves from the world beneath our feet while remaining on this planet.

Why?

I guess people get bored. People see the world in front of them equipped

with an ego because pause:

Everyone has an ego. The sizes of our egos vary, which is why there is such

a variety in the human race, but everyone has one. It is our consciousness. It

is what makes us human. Those whose egos are too big are the reason it has

a negative connotation, but brains contain egos, as they also contain

superegos and ids.

And for some reason, they feel a need to explore it. We have, as man,

conquered this land. As time went on and most of the land had been explore,

we decided where we wanted to settle. Long story short, the moving out was

over and the building up was to begin. Now, we have gone everywhere we

can as man tied to a planet by a force called gravity. We have conquered the

land, ventured the sea, flew in the air, and reached the moon.

Ha ha.

We have nowhere left to go but to start over but with something we have

created, such as technology. We have nothing left to do on Earth because

we’ve conquered it, but we’re still here.

Sort of waiting to die.

Killing ourselves slowly, actually.

Why?

Because we have nothing to do.

We keep the people occupied with phones that are smarter than them,

television made for advertisement disguised as entertainment, radio that

plays the same set lists of songs over and over and over again. Who is

making these decisions and why don’t people want to make them for

themselves? How have people become so dependent on something that, in

certain ways, doesn’t really exist? I suppose technology is technically

(ironically) energy manifested into matter for various purposes. But our

purposes for this purpose are becoming purposeless. We have little else to

do with it. We have attacked all senses with the media. We are raised as

citizens of this country to accept things the way they come and not question

anything else.

We are all given the same books to read.

But you know, I get it. Even though I’ll read just about anything you put in

front of me, I understand why not everyone is that way. Because we are all

different, we are good and bad at different things. It is such a simple concept

to grasp and yet has escaped us for such time. Instead of trying to force us

all to be the same—to have the same education, to do the same jobs, have

the same opinions, live the same lives—why don’t we encourage each

person to just be themselves instead of trying to be what everyone else

appears to be? Why don’t we read the books we want to read? Why must we

deny a child enjoyment in what they do? Why does education have to be a

punishment? Instead of telling a child they are wrong for having an opinion,

why don’t we hear them out? Why can’t compromises be made? Instead of

being mad that the kid doesn’t want to do what you asked it to, find out what

exactly the kid does want to do. Instead of making it feel like an idiot for not

being able to be interested in something it cannot comprehend, why not

encourage the child to find something that does? Why must we deny

personal freedoms in a country founded on the idea itself? Why can we not

choose for ourselves how we would like to spend our own time? Why are we

not in charge of the life we live?

It seems as though maybe the creation of formal education was originally

intended to level the playing field, so to speak. If you think about it from a

standpoint of innocence, giving everyone the same information would

therein give each person with said education an equal opportunity to make

something of themselves based on what they are taught. In theory, of

course. In reality, it does not always work out the way you want it to. Instead

of growing to learn we are all of the same species and therefore equal, we

are quick to recognize our differences. We have a tendency to find and

expose the flaws of others to make ourselves feel more at peace with our

own flaws. It is elementary behavior, but that is what sticks to us most. The

early years of development are most crucial to life. Instead of making

children feel bad about themselves for what they may be incapable—or even

just less capable than others—of, they should be praised for the things they

can do. If instead of trying to force every individual to be the same person,

we should encourage people to be themselves.

Like. If you give a mouse a cookie, but books aren’t made of sugar. But if you

got to choose the book you got, wouldn’t you be more inclined to read that

book? Wouldn’t that be a more encouraging way to teach a child? When they

are young, they have a short attention span. You can’t make them

concentrate any longer than they are able to. Even if you force them to

listen, it doesn’t mean they are going to absorb any of the things you tell

them. Let them go at their own pace. Maybe it is just Lolly LOLing about

everything running on Lolly Time. I mean, I seem to have gotten everywhere

I’ve ever needed to be exactly when I need to be there.

Where are you and when are you gonna get here?

Ordinary people have the capability to do very extraordinary things. We are

all equal, no matter the little things that make us think otherwise. As long as

you try, you succeed. People spit that shit at you your whole life and it

sounds stupid and cheesy, but it’s true. The brain is the most powerful tool

on the planet. If you want something, it is yours! You just have to really

believe you have it.

What you never understood is that everything happens for a reason. Yes, it

all works out in the end. If you never get anywhere but your grave, I’m sorry

you didn’t live life to the best of your ability. You think you’ve ruined my life

but you made it happen. I hate you so much but I must thank you for what

you’ve done to destroy me.

It seems as though the Grateful Dead was right in saying American Beauty is

American Reality. From finding Box of Rain on a Classics disc to having a

friend that is a friend of the Devil—can you imagine knowing someone who

killed someone you know and knowing he was headed straight to Hell? That’s

what I call a friend of the Devil, anyway. And yes, he is a friend of mine.

Some of my friends are dead. Whatever, it’s always good to know someone

in another dimension has my back. After all of it, I still have my Sugar

Magnolias… So long as the Candyman don’t take them away…

I am a cracked rock (not a crack rock) that has hit rock bottom, but a Ripple

has been left in the water. If I can rock the boats of those who float along to

what life sends their way—if I could make them look at the water and

question the tide, I will feel okay. If I could give my life and their Deaths a

purpose, it would make sleeping at night much easier. My life has been

melodramatic and terribly tragic and it has been worth every second

because it has created the person who can put these thoughts together

today, but it was not easy. I want to ease the minds’ of those who question

things. I want to tell them they are not alone. The things that happen to us

can make us who we are if we don’t become them. Never forget but don’t

always remember. Skeletons in a closet; Attics of my Life.

What can I say? You flew to me. Even though I think I can predict the way

this story ends, it isn’t set in stone until it’s over. Yes, it has been a long,

strange trip. Even though it’s when the album ends, and all you have to look

forward to is doing it again, you have to keep Truckin’. That’s the best advice

Jerry Garcia had, anyway. And so far, no one has given me better. The

Grateful Dead told the trivial trials and errors of your average rebellious

youth in America in one poetically written and beautifully composed eleven-

song story. It contains more heart, soul, and honesty about the cycle of life,

love, and death than any other musician could produce in a century-long

career.

Even if I am just the Brokedown Palace… Operators standing by…

Though my life is much more a Battle against Pink Robots. And when I look

at her, I see the American Beauty.

It is really strange the way things happen. I have grown to refuse

Coincidence as a possibility.

But who knows? I could be as wrong as anyone. Or I could be right.

Which would mean my fore-fathers and mothers were right, too.

Or I’ll see them in Hell if Heaven doesn’t take us.

Catholic school made me a good person. Public school taught me to do bad

things.

Do bad things make me a bad person?

What makes a person good?

I think I am a good person that does bad things.

I think the only thing you need to do to be a good person is to be good to

people.

How does one be good to another?

Put them first. Give them what they want. Make their smile more important

than yours. And hope that time spent on this person will in turn encourage

them to do the same, even if it’s not for you and it’s for someone else. If you

are good to them, they will be good to someone else. And if they are good to

someone else, you were good to that someone else, too, right?

That’s my whole purpose. Just trying to help out. Sorry if I’m not helping.

Isn’t it the thought that counts? No, because people don’t appreciate

anything, let alone though. Oh, well. Fuck ‘em all. Oh, not you, Boys. Y’all

know.

Are there any good people left in the world who don’t want to get fucked up

and fuck shit up? Or do I fucking complain too much? Am I just desperate, or

do I have merit?

I want to rebuild, not destroy.

All in all, I wish people were more conscious of each other and our Mother.

We’ve “conquered” Earth. Let’s explore space!

There is no fucking hope left for planet Earth. I think if nothing else, that is

really what the end of the world is. It is the day in which we become

absolutely hopeless. We have done fucked up 2000 years’ worth of time.

2000 years we had to figure our shit out. Or, 2000 of our years; 2000 Jesus

years. That should be enough time, shouldn’t it?

I have mad respect for Jesus. By dying on the cross, he showed the love he

had for everyone. That’s cool. All I’m doing is writing a book, not sacrificing

my life (unless EVERYONE that reads this is going to tell me to kill myself—

don’t worry, guys. I know the Team is not going to let me kill myself.) I didn’t

mean to actually compare myself to Jesus just then. I didn’t mean that at all.

I’m just saying, I got some fuckin’ Jesus love for y’all.

Religion is so funny to me. But I’m not making fun of your religion. You

believe what you believe and I’ll believe what I believe. That’s exactly what I

find so funny about religion, though. People use brute force and utter

violence to promote their life of “peace”. They basically break all their own

rules to get people to do as they say because they believe they are right.

What is the point in that? If anything, you look more wrong by doing wrong

unto me. Truly, the only rule we need to live by as human beings is “Do No

Harm To Others” and all the rest will follow. We wouldn’t need people to tell

us what decisions to make if we could whole-heartedly love one another

enough to not wish any ill of anyone. Having laws just gives the balance of

good and evil that should co-exist teams for battle. What is this battle for?

We’re already touching ourselves.

We don’t have anything left to fight for. Everyone is divided up and walled

off. What is there left to do? Throw bombs from our barricades? What are

you, children? Are you fucking serious? We have the capability to charge and

run our society with the sun’s energy for the rest of existence but instead of

giving everyone the ability to do that, you are taking our hard-earned money

to fund a war over oil that we have already proven to ourselves we don’t

need? But you think I’m some dumb fucking hippie, right?

I’m just letting you know what I have going on in my head. I’ve heard general

statements from all parties and have experienced some of them first hand. I

don’t think I can say that anyone is wrong because there has been some

aspect of every last one of you I’ve liked enough to believe. However, it’s all

the political bullshit most of these beliefs are covered in that I just can’t get

down with. The use of force must stop. No matter what you think you know,

let it go. You can’t force anything upon anyone. You know what that did? It

created two kinds of people in the world:

1. Good people

2. Bad people

Here’s the problem with that:

1. It’s not true.

I think there are good people who do bad things and bad people who do

good things, but it is not as simple as good and bad. There’s black in the

white and white in the black!! But instead of giving people the benefit of the

doubt or the chance to prove it, we assume a person is simply one or the

other. This has resulted in two extremes:

1. People who are willing to try anything

2. People who are not willing to try

Hey, man. Stop trying. I think that’s our biggest problem right there is that

we try too hard. We try too hard to look how we want; we try too hard to

impress people. We try too hard to be perfect; we try too hard to hide that

we’re not. We try too hard to unite; we try too hard to win. Maybe if we

didn’t try so damn hard, it would come to us. But in a way, we have to try

this hard because that’s how you obtain money to obtain everything else you

might want.

Fuck. We’re living Monopoly when we should really be playing the Game of

Life.

FUCKING WHY?

Do you think when the world ends someday it will have been worth it? Do

you think all the money in the world will matter when you are alone when

this world ends? When will you realize that it doesn’t fucking matter?

Time’s up, game’s over; you who shall live shall crumble.

And that’s according to your own rules! I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to

end the game. I don’t play games but if I have to win the game to end it,

game the fuck on. And I’m not really playing on God or Satan’s team. If

anything, I’m playing for the Humans. Like, everyone is bitching and freaking

out about the world becoming shit but they contribute to the standing

problems. Why are you complaining if you aren’t actually trying to do

anything but let it happen? Not caring and partying the rest of your

“numbered” days away? Are you stock-piling goods and gold for when there

aren’t other people to get it for you? Are you praying? Are you fucking

praying? For what? Can you actually pray for your sins to be absolved at the

last minute? And when the world doesn’t end, will you continue to sin? And if

you are forgiven for your sins in the end, why not sin? Plus, no matter who

you pray for, they don’t care what happens here. We’re only useful when

we’re dead.

So here I am asking you what you’re doing to fix the problems that we have

presented to ourselves. Maybe you’re curious as to what I’m doing, on

account of me asking you.

I don’t think the world is going to end anytime soon. But I do think something

might happen. There are plenty of things that could happen, and they could

happen at any time. I got some theories about the moon… All we can have

when all is gone is what we are. All that will be left when our materials are

abolished will be the energy we have been created of and the light that

shines upon it. Why do we even care about the material things? I like them, I

enjoy them, but man. We don’t NEED them! They say you don’t need

anything but yourself and that’s totally true because as long as you are here,

there is your reality. But what is the point of reality if it is you and only you?

LOL What am I even saying anymore?!?!?! LY

When it comes down to it, I guess I think people are angry and stupid and if

I’m refusing to be angry and stupid after all the anger and stupidity I’ve

witnessed, then you should refuse to be angry and stupid, too. We just need

love.

Does anyone have a better answer?

I only wanted your answer because the answer I came up with was love but

you said I was wrong. If I have the wrong answer, what is the right answer?

[Don’t blame the need for an answer on the drugs I’ve done. Blame it on the decade of Catholic schooling that taught me how to problem solve.]

I can’t come up with a better conclusion than to try and bring justice upon

our greatest injustices. I don’t see myself ever stopping my brain from doing

what it wants until I am stopped in my maddening tracks, but I don’t see

anyone stopping me. In fact, people just encourage me. So I am going to do

my best to change the world because I am so certain it is what I’m here to

do. It’s been bugging me for years and at no point in my life has that flame

blown out. No matter how blown or blown out I’ve been, I’ve always

remained pathetic about my problems because I knew I had bigger problems

to solve.

I don’t mean to sound ultra-pretentious, I am just trying to explain myself so

very dearly to you. I have put my Life in this book. I have given it all the

passion that pumps through my blood. I wrote these words with fire. I will be

sure my flaming lips will never die. After all, fire is light. Right?

You had a vision of the Flaming Lips. I had visions of you. And now

look at us.

I told you, I refuse to believe in coincidence.

I can’t see a better way to do what I’m here to do than with you. I’d like to

think I’m not naïve, I’m just positive. I choose see the best in everyone and I

know there are consequences to that because I’ve paid those consequences

on multiple occasions. I’ll see the best in you, too, no matter who you are. I’ll

let you take advantage of my loving heart as much as you want because it

doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s almost like I haven’t got anything better

to do than write this because I haven’t got much else going for me but my

words and I have enough words in my head for a book. Oh, even though

everyone wants to say it is impossible, I figured out the

EQUATION FOR PEACE: SMILE, LOVE, GIVE, JAM.

Well, that’s all I got. So… What now, Boys? What do I do now? What do you think?

I’d love to know what anyone thinks.

Does anyone think?

“When there was no dream to dream, you dreamed of me”

“All we’ve ever had is now”

My Life: The Joke That Makes You Laugh So Hard, It Hurts

LAUGH OUT LOUD

LOVE YOU

Last Paige. Bye.

“Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin’ on”