Pretty Vacant

I started to believe that breaks in life simply do not exist for a person like me. I started to cast myself in the category of holy fool, decidedly in the russian sense, and but the ascribing didn't make me feel any better. There are thirty thousand hash marks on my back, scraped out with each irritation, each straw that the camel tries so doggedly to take up, each and each and each, and when does it break you? And I guess it all depends on the you, whoever that is. I have not yet broken and it has been a steady slip doooooooooooooooooown.

Hey,

possessions never meant that much to me. I've got a belt that I really care about and a camera. It would be easier, I thought this afternoon, if I weren't in love. I would fill up a back pack and couch surf in olympia and then perhaps move down the coast because oberlin really just isn't cutting it for me anymore. But there are complications.

He had a history that at times rained down from everywhere.

We decided to, in five years, move to Costa Rica because life like this has become so loathsome. I keep looking at that tax return on the edge of the desk and thinking of all that it entails. I want out, I want out. I don't want a safe life, this country is a prison with gold bars. It's so hard to hack it as anything that doesn't report, in some way, to an asshole. And then even when you think you're the exception, there's that tax return again.

I love the sex pistols because they were the first ones. The pioneers when it was scary and who knew if you could make a living singing about anarchy and wearing safety pins and chains? They did it because it was their passion, and a fuck all to anyone who tried to tell them they'd starve to death and give their mothers heart attacks. I'm trying to live, that's all.