Through a rain splatter bus window

The Bloomfield Skate Shop has been replaced by an insurance agency. If you look down that street, it seems like youthful rebellion is dying and the tattoo parlor is the next target. Is this some sort of metaphor for the world, for my life or just a depressing Friday morning?

Never dyed my hair blue. Wait too long to get inked (should have been for my 21st, turned out to be a college graduation present for myself). I got pressured into normal. I don’t LIKE normal. But now that I’m so far in I don’t know how to get myself out. I’m writing this and picturing a rebellion of words and ink and hair color not found in nature while I wear suit pants and desperately cover up my tattoo for fear of being fired. The rebellion I wanted isn’t underground, it’s been buried alive.

And now I switch the topic completely.

I can forget that I hate myself until I find a mirror and then I remember that it’s all BETTER but it’s still not good. Even when the pants are too big, the next size down isn’t small enough.

Don’t defend me to myself. Boys who think I look good are either fucked up or don’t know any better. I know what I look like and I don’t like myself much. I know what I want and won’t be happy until I have it.