This blog has, recently, become less specifically ‘drugs’ and more ‘whatever idea or soundbyte sort of makes sense and somewhat justifies my existence at this point in time or justifies from a moment in the past my existence now’.
And I remember. Buzzing about Manhattan. Between Job #1 and Job #2 [which were technically the same job in different locations] or Job #1 and School… or Job #1.5 and the crack shack [home]. This time that exists in between… that one has to ‘kill’ we spent in the Barnes and Noble on 6th Avenue. The Barnes and Noble that doesn’t exist anymore. Shooting up in the bathroom, then finding a calm but buzzing about internally.
See, I was still a writer then… and as I writer, I read. I DEVOURED books. And in the air-conditioning, in the Barnes and Noble on 23rd Street and 6th Avenue, I killed the time that actual life wasn’t fit to kill. Walking amongst the stacks, opening the books, on a quest to find something that was good enough to be read… but really, on a quest to find something, anything [like now] that either makes sense or somewhat justifies my existence.
In so doing, I came upon, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”. I felt above it or just like, ‘no’, somehow. I think it was written by a 13 year-old or something and it was probably really meta-. A young would-be writer writing about writing with words in a book that he’s written. I opted instead for “Well” by Matthew McIntosh. A novel told in a stream of consciousness manner about the sadness of the pacific northwest [one or two pages stained with a mixture of a squirt of blood/saline/some drug]. Anyway, I probably really just felt angry and resentful that this sort of thing (“Perks…”) could be on the shelf all popular and shit. …that this sort of watered-down bullshit could pass these days as meaningful. But mostly, I probably was jealous.
Anyway, so now, it’s a film. A thousand years later.
. …yes, there was a film.
And well, I can never not fall in love with a coming-of-age story.