They say new day, new beginning, new life. Whatever.
I’d like to say, go fuck yourself. But I don’t. Most things I keep to myself now. I used to be brash, cocky, arrogant, outspoken, everything you’d expect from a kid raised with punk rock hopes and dreams. Punk rock is dead. Punk rock has been dead for years. Killed by labels, money, and the rest of another stupid family. Nobody’s punk anymore. Not even CM. Instead, like you and her and them, I comply and I foil. I say hello, my name is Dean. And they say, hi Dean. That’s a funny name, Dean. Where does that come from? Who cares? Not you, that’s for sure. None of them smile, smiles are expensive now too. But we all put on our faces, that’s how things go, no wonder why the best of us go away after turning twenty seven.
Twenty seven times I’ve said to myself, that how you get through now. You have my soul and I have your money. Get me a beer. One more, and I take you all. Of course not, just a matter of speech. Always a matter of speech. What you say, when you say it. Anything and everything you say now is under a microscope. A microscope with a broken lens, with a tendency to stupidify what you say. Don’t talk too loud, you might offend someone. What? What did I read? If you’re interesting in filing a formal complaint against me, please step in line, but make sure to bend over before anything else, someone else might pop behind you in a second.
In a second moment of mental dizziness it finally dawned on me that there was no actual purpose in anything. Burroughs said it first, or didn’t really. He figured out the matter. Cut up sentences and put them together. My heart is broke, but I have some glue. Others followed and got millions to burn and burned with millions. Sometimes people ask me whether or not I’d like that. I say, go fuck yourself. I know what’s next on the menu.