1. Matt Hardwick - I Am DJ (Ben Gold Remix)
2. The Killers - Spaceman (Sander van Doorn Remix)
3. Bobina - Time and Tide (Gareth Emery Remix)
4. Jes - My Love (Johan Gielen Remix)
5. Breakfast - Remember

That's all I managed to get into 15 minutes.

Thanks everyone for coming out! Keep your eyes open for Utopia... it's definitely going to be bigger than anything the 831 rave scene has ever seen!

love

Katie

i wish i could draw her as well as my mother. as well as i remember
her, when she wasn't afraid of the water, and she styled her bangs with
aqua net over orange juice cans, painting glitter on her eyes, and she
smiled for cameras with orchids laid across her breast, heavy hair
distracting her from the weight that drowned her heart. i
wish i could paint her in the days when she wasn't so afraid. i wish i
could draw her at the hand-me-down singer, tapping the rhythm of the
stitches with her right foot as my father babbled tongues into the
bathroom mirror and scribbled sermons out on the swingset. to save her
sanity my mother sewed a tangerine nightgown out of the fabric she
stole from her mother the week of her father's funeral. it was all she
had left of the man who saved her family from remnants of peanut butter
barrels and white beans, of the man who saved her from the inevitable
fate of a half-appalachee girl between the lives of miners. so while
the wake went on, she fed her mother whiskey and breath mints, and then
whisked the cotton shantung from the curtain rods, folding it
underneath the breast pump in my diaper bag. all i was old enough to
remember was the ginger ale i tasted for the first time in the paisley
print of first class on the way back to tampa, just before the smell of
the paper bag as my toddler's eyes struggled with my stomach to make
sense of the birth of depth perception out the window of the family
Cessna. even as i was so young i remember the smell of tobacco in the
secret pockets, i remember the scent of flammability as the window of
the cobalt celebrity rolled down in my memaw's garage when i went to
get a shasta. to this day the tic-tac apprehension of the pills in her
purse hasn't completely faded, but this isn't what i choose to keep. i
wish i could hold the wide brown eyes as they combed out the curls of
my long blonde hair, as she ordered my father to move the sign around
the living room, taping it to the tops of drapes and the vents between
hardwood and wainscoating. "look this way," the signs said, and i paid
attention because she paid attention to me. day after day, my mother
spun my hair over bristled brushes like a vicarious rapunzel as she
wove herself into her own prison. she combed, and i think as she
combed, she forgot the things that wouldn't allow her to remember. i
wish i coud draw the face my father met, the way she writhed
underwater, her hands on her heels, the smile she held for two and a
half minutes at a time, the weightless pirouettes and defiant hips, and
the color, the saturation of the lycra fanning at her feet, spinning
around her head as she searched for a prince in a theater in central
florida. you see, my mother was a mermaid, and my father was a
preacher. he bet his life on saving souls like a plaid-coated texan
sells used cadillacs that break down just out of the view of the city,
in the edges of solitude. i respected my father as i respected god in
those days, because before my brother was born i never realized that
saving souls was such a seller's market.



i wish i hadn't let her go.

you know what really upsets me? money.

more specifically, when people have enough of it where they feel they no longer require standards in their lives.

well, i'm not good enough to write for rolling stone, but my parents DID give me thirty-grand so let's start our own art zine because i have deluded myself into believing my opinion supersedes effort.

what is so wrong with improving these days? no one seems to want to take the time to do so. i'm not trying to shit on art zines but let's be realistic--there is a difference between honest, real rebellion and self-loathing induced bullshit. rebellion comes from inside. you take what you want, challenge it, and do it intelligently or at the very least convincingly. i mean, shit talking on the other hand (fashion shit talking, music shit talking, political shit talking) is basically no different than pointing and screaming, "Look at that!" and hoping the person looking has the same opinions as you or will at least laugh at your bilious snarking. i mean, hell, that is what i'm doing. but i always thought that it took a little more creativity and a lot more guts to "box" yourself with a few limitations or goals than to fashion yourself God of your shitsheet newspaper because you're the sort of fuck who considers poor grammar "creative". Look at Hunter S Thompson. Nonconformist. Journalist. Counterculture idol. Accessed a whole lot more people (via Rolling Stone and novels) than you did with your shitty band, your Sociology discussion group and that Kinko's drone who scribbles tits and dicks on the test copies you left in the printer tray.


(by the way, you're NOT faulkner so please don't label your lazy writing "stream of consciousness." it's more like verbal diarrhea parsed in spurts between misplaced commas.)

i am also really sick of people who tell me i'm a "poser" because i read crimethinc books and am struggling as a vegan, or cause i like to go out and party, as if my enjoyment of life and my tribulations with something which frankly has nothing to fucking do with my views on government should detract from the fact i sympathize with anarchy. i thought being an anarchist was about the opinions of many people coming together with their best assets to create a mutually beneficial community. just because i'm not hardcore dumpster diving, mooching off Presbyterian food banks, or delivering a self-righteous lecture to some hoboes under a bridge doesn't make me a tourist in the world of discontent. NONE OF US ARE FREE THE SYSTEM YET BECAUSE THE SYSTEM STILL EXISTS.

everyone contributes in different ways, and so will i. i am writing a book, for flying spaghetti monster's sake. i'd rather be support for open minded people than a freak who frightens the curious. i.e.,

THE STRAIGHTEDGE VEGAN ANGRY "ANARCHIST" NORM IS LITTLE MORE THAN ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT SOCIAL FASCISM.

you people need to wake the fuck up if you think i can't be a good anarchist 'cause i love cheese or because i read Perez Hilton. first of all, i seriously doubt there could POSSIBLY be a 'good anarchist', because WHO is the authority on good and bad, and i thought we didn't believe in that type of authority, and while i'm at it, who the fuck died and made you Nazi Savior of All Those Who Seriously Think Dr. Bronners Works For Everything?

(it doesn't.... you stink)

Seriously? humans hunted. it's a fact, it's fucking science, and humans won't STOP doing it, ever, unless the only human settlement not wiped out by the next ice age is a tribe of fruitarians. by the way, it is bullshit to think that humanity will or should give up animal consumption in the name of global warming. i am so sick of people telling me that cow farts are destroying the world. GET RID of this computer, your computers, your cars, your cigarettes, ALL the cell phones, your flights to protest cities where you can make yourselves seen...do some good in your own damn neighborhood and THEN talk to me about cow farts...

Seriously, people are up in arms to the point they throw paint or flour on the anorexic billboards called celebrities. It's given front-page status when Lindsay Lohan gets the fur she stole from a club in New York ruined by a dyke with a handful of all-purpose bleached wheat.  (And then it's given front page again when the bitch who owned the stolen fur decides to sue.) Meanwhile, there's genocide in Darfur, pointless brutality in Somalia, dead and violated maquiladore workers in trenches on the Mexican border, girls sold into sex slavery as a last resort to violent debt collectors, polonium-poisoning mafia-status corruption in Russia, and by the way, you know... come to think of it most of the people on this planet would absolutely adore the opportunity to afford to eat a fucking cow.

Oh, and FYI as well : humans have also experimented with mind-altering substances from the beginning of history. another fact, no explanation necessary. Most of them still do experiment in one form or another. And most of them aren't totally depraved. At least the majority of us are not getting loaded off hallucinogens and wine and collectively cannibalizing young virgins like the Greeks used to do (it's called Sparagmos, involved what's euphemistically termed 'omophagia' and was a huge part of early Dionysian (*ahem* later Bacchanalian) worship.)

so the dogma that's thrown in my face about how meat is murder and dairy is rape and drugs sabotage the goal of peaceful society is really just a waste of time. it's a bunch of arrogant fuckfaces being DISHONEST to themselves. (i'm sure there are a few people out there that genuinely believe eating any animal product is wrong and keeping the body free of toxins is important... but there's a lot less of those than people who PRETEND to be those just to fluff themselves off, which makes people like me want to kick them in their no-balls). That sort of attitude, that Nazi Jesus shit, totally counters what these people would like to believe about the character in their head that they try to be in life. yeah, we have goals but isn't half of the achievement knowing how to get there? knowing who and where we are?

know this: i'm not a fucking rapist because i like to eat cheese. in fact i prefer moldy stinky french cheese that doesn't slice well and smells like feet. i fucking love it. i don't see why not because i don't think anarchy means total ignorance of human achievement. i mean, moldy cheese became the epitome of human stagnation.

frankly--do some research, haters, on the amount of animals killed in countries like China or India during rice and vegetable harvests. is one kind of killing more acceptable than the other? and what about the Native Americans? Drugs? Check! Most efficient animal consumers in history? Check! In favor of community discussion rather than forced relocation by a "President" none of them had ever been allowed to challenge? Check!

despite some early vehicle trouble, today ended up being easily one of the most interesting days i've had in a really long time.

in case you're wondering, a few things in no particular order and with no guarantee of coherence or proper grammar:

-driving in sunglasses up to san francisco in weather that would be top down weather if only the scion were a convertible
-during this drive, trying to come up with every single pop culture allusion to the 101 and coming up with tori amos
-taking an hour to get from the embarcadero to haight street and having to call three different people to give me directions
-parallel parked for what could possibly have been the first time in my life...i'm serious, i even failed it in the driver's test when i was 17.
-an aspiring car chase: a guy weaving in and out of traffic next to me was insistent on changing lanes TWICE despite the cop's blinkers and sirens, and almost drove directly into my car
-recognizing every single track in amoeba's trance section. disappointment in selection conflicted with a mildly embarrassing pride in my knowledge, as if officially passing "trance for dummies"
-working on the book in golden gate park
-the half football (irish)/half football (american) refuge from hipster insanity
-hearing amy's stories about her day
-vegan thai food
-the waiters at the sushi restaurant which we crashed (as in, i'm sure they loved it when several more people showed up at the table in a tiny dining room) staring at us for half an hour
-good luck at the thrift store
-whenever you put together two people who were at one point extremely close but at the present only see each other once in a while, there is an inevitable point in the conversation where you talk about who got fat.
-"eggy" spray painted in purple on the side of a dumpster off van ness
-giving an ID card to a group of guys who were just standing out front of the pub to have a smoke
-ordering a pabst blue ribbon and then refusing to drink it
-the tracks you only listen to in the car on long drives because you won't admit publicly that you never got sick of it when it was being played out
-a living room with a giant plaster muskie on the wall... muskie is a fish for those of you not from wisconsin


i'd write more but i'm too lazy to recall in any detail.

besides, two other things were prevalent in my mind today: the first being i get to see simon patterson at the end of the month.
most of you reading (i see you) are thinking "who the fuck is simon patterson?"
and the rest of you, those who know who he is, know why i am very, VERY excited.


the second thing on my mind... getting over it. i did a lot of that recently on too many different levels to explain. it's really sort of embarrassing to hear about some of the (pardon my french) stupid fucking shit i did, but i guess it's that embarrassment that's been a substitute teacher while learning a lesson. lately i've been getting good at rolling with the punches instead of getting knocked out by them.
still, when someone you care about fucks up, to make them feel better you say "everybody makes mistakes" as an expression that you still care even though some incredibly poor decisions were made. to be completely honest, and i may as well go ahead and say it because i'll probably end up deleting this as soon as i wake up in the morning anyway, i had the worst time dealing with people's compliments on how i've turned things around. to me, drawing contrasts between then and now always made me feel like shit about myself now even though that was then. so i'd turn into a fat debbie downer which means sucks to be tyler that night. i had a tendency, just like a lot of people we know, to be nasty to others when feeling attacked. but that's not the point.
the point is: i don't know how but somehow it occured to me that all people are saying to me at those times is, "now THAT's very capable of you, that's what i expected, let's move on."
so i did.

anyway i feel particularly lucky today.

before i go to bed...
friday afternoon i got a phone call in the office from a number i didn't recognize and so i answered normally: "Glastonbury, this is Katie, how can I help you?" The voice on the other line sounded like a senior citizen with a very heavy South American accent. This of course would be a regular client for us, so I tried my best to help him  find who he was looking for.
"Eeeeem, hello," the guy said. "Eeeem'm looking for Ereeeec."
"Eric? Eric Moore?" I said.
"No....Ereeeeec....Ereeeec.... whats heees last name....."
At this point I am impatient because there is really only one Eric at our shop.
"Eeee'm looking for Ereeec..... ERIC PRYDZ."
I laughed so fucking hard... "Eric PRYDZ!---wait, who is this?"
The voice on the other line says, "The Blackest Man You Know."

...so thanks, Brandon, for what was easily the most flawlessly executed prank call I've ever experienced.

night

...So i just finished writing Tyler's bio for his frisky radio guest mix. Sometimes i feel like a tosser writing like that but on the other hand, i suppose if there's anyone who should write favorably upon tyler it's me, especially 'cause i give him so much shit in face-to-face times.

I'll be in San Francisco this weekend, and the weekends of the 24th and 30th. i saw Ronski Speed when he came through 1015 around the same time last year and it was the first time i'd ever gone to a club by myself. At this point in time in 08 i knew i was going to get to miami a little bit earlier than the rest of my flatmates, so i figured i'd give myself the practice. it was a crazy set, but you'd be amazed (would you?) at how many possessive girlfriends give a free-radical female the evil eye. I was just there to dance!

But of course, straight out of the murphy's law rulebook: I managed to bust the heel off my boots right at the end of his set. Thankfully, the driver that usually carted me to and from clubs back then was just outside, saving me some embarrassment...

Why is it that I have bad club karma like that? like, the time we went to Laidback Luke at Vessel. I had to work at nine the next morning and Luke played past 2 a.m... he's one of Tyler's favorite DJs so I insisted that we stay to the end of his set. He kept playing, and kept playing, and finally I had to call it a night... of course, just as we were reaching the top of the stairs the set finished. Figures.

Or the time I broke my brand new white espadrilles at Yoji Biomehanika-- and I never get new shoes, so that was pretty upsetting.

Then there was my first night in Miami at Ora UltraLounge where i didn't know they had a ninety-dollar minimum bar tab--thank goodness for DA saving me and having someone to drink with...

Or the other Miami mishap where I spilled a glass of water all over my keyboard poolside at the resort while grabbing a snack...

And then at Ultra Festival there was that big British oaf drinking tequila out of his camelbak who stomped the hell out of my foot...

Or the unexpected (and unprovoked) nosebleed at EDC 07...

Or the creepy waiter in Paris who slobbered all over my favorite tights and wouldn't leave me alone...

Or the time I cut the music at EFC December...

Or the time I was apparently the ONLY ONE COSTUMED at Carnival...

Or the fire extinguisher going off all over the decks at A&B at Ruby Skye last June... that one WASN'T my fault, but it was crappy nonetheless...

I suppose as I've been writing this the point shouldn't be that shitty things always happen to me at clubs, because that's not true. Lots of great things happen to me at clubs as well and for every bad thing there's always a memory attached. In Miami it felt like every time I needed someone to help, there was someone there to dance with (or in one case to mop up my laptop keyboard, which still works by the way). And when I killed the music last month everyone was really supportive. And maybe I took vaudeville out of context at Carnival but it was fun and brought a little bit of originality into a sea of pastel-colored candy girls. And the time at Yoji when Myles bitched out the homeless guy for being creepy and meeting Horsecut with his "TUNE" sign....

And how can ANYONE complain about clubbing in Paris?

Looking back on it with some much-needed perspective: I was an incredibly spoiled girl the past two years of my life, but I never really shared it as much as I could have. I'm incredibly grateful for all the opportunities I've had to see the world and to hear great music--in fact I don't really know what I'd do without people like Tyler, Joe, Mikey, Will, Sena, Jer, David... people who some way or another shape the way I look at music, whether it's a "Listen to this," or "Come to my show."

So that's why I'm doing what I'm doing now, there are a lot of really fun things coming up on the horizon if you're lucky enough to live in San Francisco or Monterey.

First of all there's our weekly, which I'm really stoked about: Think about this, four rotating residents, and seven featured headliners, every Thursday, dollar drinks... and it's all homegrown! Designers, photographers, models, promotion: I'm pretty thankful for how everyone's come together to make it happen so far...

And then EFC, which for the first time will have its very own troupe of dancers! That's come together too with work providing the lighting and sound, our friends with all the promoting, and a lovely group of girls and guys who are ready to get together to dance...

I guess the only thing still bothering me are the pessimists out there that say things like, "Well it's in Monterey, you'll never be like San Francisco." I hear this almost every day. And I suppose it's fine if you want to take that attitude, or to think that you're somehow special enough that you can tell us that we "try too hard", or that we're "posers" or anything along that vein, because at the end of the day if your brain is backwards enough to have fun sitting in your apartment and HATING on people who just want to get together and have a good time and make nights to remember --even if there are only 150 people there, even if it's in a side room, even if one of the DJs accidentally kills the music-- if you're one of the kinds of people who disparages our right to do what we've done and make what we've made, then will you do us a favor and PLEASE fuck off?

...I mean, what good is dance music without a good attitude? And what good is a party if you're not sharing it with people who are equally as psyched?

Anyway, I'm just ranting because I'm in my office and no one's here 'cause a conference is happening... With so much coming up it's natural to have a lot of thoughts... but if you've made it this far don't forget to go to Heavy next weekend, and I'll see you there!

x
Katie

The structure had aged violently, veins of rusty elevators circulating its benefactors, a former piece de resistance of the neighborhood reduced to a crusting of melting glass and decaying concrete. The windows funneled soiled rain into a three-pronged delta of trails, and beyond that laid a row of brick-faced counterparts, and beyond that a garden, and beyond that lay the tower. It wasn't the gold-plated trinket of her childhood; rather it rotted in the middle of the mess in the city, unattractive save for its meaning. Rhiannon lay stone-faced with a stranger in her bed, allowing her eyes to focus on the beastly sculpture, and then to lapse into obscurity as she imagined how many people had taken pictures of the subject of her line of vision. As she ruminated the incomparably large amount, it occurred to her that importance had no relevance in her life anymore. She threw the pillow from her chest and stumbled towards the balcony, lighting a cigarette before she pushed open the bulky wood-framed doors. It was six in the morning. She refused to admit her own consciousness, tainted with a pervasiveness of memory not unlike a jackrabbit round a dog track, and instead finished the legs of a bottle of vodka left on the banister. She thought of the paintings, covered in canvas and jersey, and she exhaled. The extrusions of smoke did well to stifle any knee-jerk defacement, but the polarity of her impulses was infinitely debatable. She turned her head towards the tower again, its elevators fixed at the base, the rain soaking the fringe around her forehead into the corners of her eyes. She wiped her face. The tower had held infinitite possibility before she'd ever seen it, but a ruined beholding had reduced it to a beacon of failure less than half a mile from her bedroom window.

in the background, noise like cinema


always a rough draft, never the story.

Rain thick as the consciences within slid in sheets down the side of the brick and paste Tudor that was William and Rhiannon's home, an estate in fact historically earned on opium but in more recent days an uncleanly mixture of art theft, gambling rigs, and cocaine. Its face of a thriving construction business had never disappeared, although with William Sr.'s untimely death had grown crows' feet and double chins of weeds. The public was aware. The estate, including the servants' quarters in the garden, could be traced back to a late-seventeenth century peer whose final chapter, including the sale of the manor, were of hazily dubious content. The Fulton family had a history tracing nearly four hundred years, emerging in the early days of the East Indies and arriving in prominence at the point where Her Majesty's sun began to set. As such, they'd built a dignified yet wisely armored compound which had encased the Fultons since long before the very imagining of the siblings' existence.
William Desmond Fulton Junior, son of William Desmond Fulton the Senior, son of Henry William Fulton the Third, and so on beyond his head's exhaustion reclined in vermilion, in an aging velvet chair, never unable to cease fingering the worn elbow pads, never able to quit running his fingers through his gently thinning, brusquely shorn hair. Liam, as they called him, had just turned twenty-eight. They had been on their own for a year, five months, twenty-two days, and about six hours. He counted from the moment he'd arrived in the library at twenty-six and whiskey. Even now, neither Liam nor his sister dared open the door: not for fear of ghosts, but for fear of dissipation of the last echoes of their history. The estate included the servants' quarters, which had since been deserted but for Hyacinth, their childhood nanny. She had stayed on long enough for Liam to give her the deed to the guest house upon his parents' passing. She stole into the kitchen to cook for the two thrice daily. Despite the clockwork regularity of Hyacinth's offerings, the meals often went unnoticed or uneaten.
Liam took a drink from between his fingers and promptly retched. He had been rehabilitated. Frustratingly, he could no longer stand the taste of so much straight scotch, so he dropped the glass onto the table with an emphasis in purpose. Hyacinth, until this point, had entertained the both of them on the piano wedged between the bookshelf and the doors to the veranda. She abruptly swept her fingers from the ivory and went to clean the mess of liquor lingering around the tipped glass. Liam ignored her and stumbled out into the foyer, bobbling eyes aimed towards the chandelier his mother had ordered as a commemoration of Rhiannon's birth.
A gasping emitted from under the ornate strings of nothing. Liam struggled to focus. How long had she been home? Rhiannon's form materialized past the green and purple flashings of the light that battered his corneas. A blackening at her hip tainted a dress--surely pristine when she'd left. It was that Milton again, he thought. The fucking bastard.
He tore down the stairs by threes and fours, barreling around worn carpet and faded balustrades, landing bluntly on the marble floor next to her. She said nothing, her head lolling away with eyes rolled back, the mascara on her face cemented save for a solitary trail which had by this time scaled the apex of her upraised chin and begun its forge towards her exposed collarbone. Liam reached out with unsteady hands and tapped the soiled linen at her tattered hemline. The taste of blood removed the doubt in his mind. Finnegan Milton was as good as dead. Rhiannon said nothing at her brother's recognizance of the severity of her wounds, and her eyes fluttered shut as he scooped her into his unsteady arms.
He carried her, slowly this time, back from where he came. The steps shook in and out of their logical existence and the spaces behind his tired eyes began to ache from the effort of focus. Upon his entrance into the drawing room, he screamed for Hyacinth. She rose quickly, dropping the dustbin and scattering the highball shards across the carpet.
"Call Doctor Miller," he uttered. Without a word, Hyacinth retreated into the kitchen.
Liam carried his sister to the same chaise from which he'd arrived. The crushed glass ground into the carpet as he laid her down.

so this evening i went down to the warped wooden benches in front of the ideal to record my first mix with the forces of solar gravity sucking the light out of an already deadened and paint-chipped boardwalk. the beach liquors was out of parliaments, but the man whom i hadn't seen in months was surprised i didn't want to add whiskey to the equation.
i opened the laptop and peeled the crusts of exploded parliaments whose remnants filtered helplessly to the bottom of the andy warhol bag from the wedge between the banksy sticker and the acid-whiteness of the machine.
i began to press buttons, to tap my feet, to nod, and then i put out my cigarette. five minutes later there they were: two little girls, one taller than the other and missing a front tooth, but both dressed in pink, and a mother vigilant like the cat downstairs over her kittens. they danced around, and at first i hadn't noticed them, no, i was much too interested in things like low kill and EQ and the most important thing in the world to me at that slice in time was a mastery of roboticism until i noticed their tap dancing.
at first, it was quick, like a finch on a windowsill, and back again. and then, their sleeves fluttered a bit closer, and when my eyes met up, they greeted twin toothy smiles framed by freckled faces--but only for a second before they scattered in a shattering of laughter. and so was our conversation, never a word spoken, the little girls dancing up to me, and a smile from me scaring them away just enough to step a little closer the next time. i very nearly forgot all about recording and handed them the headphones, asked, "have you ever heard of DJs?" but they're too young yet, intrigued, but still so innocent!, and i decided i wanted them to imagine what it was that was so thrilling, remember it, and find it themselves.
the mother, in fact, allowed this behavior which frankly completely surprised me. true: i was and am harmless. but i've black hair, tattoos on my hands, a wanderer at the boardwalk-- one knew instantly that this mother was both infinitely understanding yet necessarily tough. she smiled at me as well.
and then it was time to go, and i heard adrian ivan, and i waved goodbye at the little sprites, and they were off with tiptoes and "bye-byes" and for the first time all day i smiled, i leaned back a bit, and as i was about to drop the next track i felt two tiny sets of arms around my waist, neither reaching all the way around, and felt two miniature faces buried into my rib cage, each fluttering with the sort of symbiosis only a genuine connection could have provided.
and then they were gone.
i looked for them, for the mother and her fairies, but it was as if they disappeared behind a palm tree, lost in a sea of fat white whales, screaming at each other about wait times for tables and long lines for cheap amusement, scared of me, staring at the scars on my arms, or the tattoos of remembrance, or the clothes i choose to wear, or my choice to do what i did where i did it, that freak, that crazy bitch, i could see it in their eyes, i see it in the eyes of the people who honk and throw things from their cars, from the friends i used to know forgotten.
but i didn't see it in them.
i speak so angrily about lost faith, about people who don't believe in me, and i think it's unfair because i know in my heart i'm perfectly fucking fine. but i realized i'd stopped believing in people. in choice. i'd forgotten that at the root of our culture, we're perfectly fucking fine. i put too much in the hands of what can't be changed.
i just hope,
i hope,
they don't grow up to remain the cynic i am today.
no, i turn the tables on this page in time. i hope i grow up to be like that family: trusting, determined, adventurous, and spirited.
i just thought i'd share.