Every day I wake up to eternity. Fuck you for not wanting to be here.

It's a harsh thought when you finish your first pre-party beer and you suddenly realize that the things you love like girls who wear vans or carry knives, and soldiers with red jackets, and skateboards from 1973 are all just shit that you've made up or things which no longer exist.

When you realize your scene is dead and all those little punk girls from high school have traded in their skinny jeans and mohawks for high heels and mimosas. Your whole world is made up of little meaningless collectibles like an old flea market on a hot summer day where grandmas buy chairs and teapots next to bikers looking for a 1968 original sissy bar.

But after the sun drys all the rain from the gutters and even a t-shirt feels too hot to wear, you begin to remember that this odd little world you've made up is fucking awesome and  anyone who wants to know even a sliver about it is also fucking awesome, and they themselves own their private worlds which they share with you.

And life becomes so fun and exciting that you forget to sleep for days.