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Kiss Off

Hey Mike. Wallowing a bunch lately - but then I try and spin it, because what if I end up like my mom not being able to remember ANYTHING? Might as well roll around in it while I still can - especially as this fucking flat patch of life is really a slog. Anyway, the Violent Femmes came on my Sp*tify feed and I immediately thought about one of my earliest dates with you (possibly the earliest? Hard to remember, since it's all so rum-soaked and speed-blended). That Violent Femmes show that I only remember from the seats in Van Duzer (I think - it was definitely a theater, so I think that was the only HSU location then for that?) and definitely, as I'm doing a deep dive into VF, explains my affinity for Jonathan Richman. Though I still hate the Blister song that has been played out, they are pretty damn punk rock and arty and all of that weirdo energy I loved about punk initially. I remember ripping down a VF poster off a pole, though literally do not remember if that was before or after ending up in Arcata. The point I was trying to get to though was how formative those first years may have been in everything that has become my life. Man, you taught me soem weird, weird shit in terms of how to live. We ate on your dad's credit card all the time, all that pizza and coke and rum! All that speed. That shitty room you had in that sktechy af apartment place. After the Violent Femmes show, coming home so drunk you had to break the window, and didn't I go through the window to open the door? Unreal! Chaos! so punk! No wonder I thought you were the sun and the moon. Goofy me, living on the edge. I loved that everyone knew you, though it did get tedious that everyone seemed pissed. But I love an underdog. Funny though that you were my Calvin to my Hobbes. Cause now, ol' Brad is a dreamy snowboarding zen master, and you are gone. Fuck. How do my attempts at logging memories always end up in this navel-gazing cul-de-sac. Ah well.

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