Punk didn’t die, it just evolved into The Dude. First of all, if you understood that previous sentence by all means continue, if not well hit your back button and get along. Secondly, this is gonna be a long meandering trip and assuming you understood that first sentence get ready for an entertaining read.
I was fourteen. God I hated the world. Young and so incredibly foolish. I remember the Mohawk I had shaved after I had seen my cousins impressive four inch spiked hawk. Every color I could buy destroyed that matt of youthful spite until it became as thin as my seemingly magnetic personality. I realize years later that I didn’t hate the world so much as I hated the fact that I seemed to have no goddamn place in it.
The wind brushes my naked body and the sprinkers have me shivering like a frightened pup. I don’t really care. I’m young and naked on a warm summer night. Life could never get any better.
The phone’s ringing and my head hurts. You’re crying as you wake me up. I’m not mad at you my brother. Please don’t think I’m mad at you. I’m just not sure of what you’re saying. Calm down brother. Calm down. No. That’s not right. I was just sleeping. Please tell me that I’m just sleeping.
I’ve tried on several occasions to properly convey a feeling that frankly there is just no possible way to ever get the fuck across. Fear. A whole other level of fear clawing out of his eyes. Desperation. So much fucking confusion. Red. Blank. Free.
I don’t hate the world and punk did not fucking die. It just evolved into The Dude… man.