You were a noise DJ for a while when that was the cool thing to do and before that you took photographs of abstract sad things and after that you made jewelry for a little while because you wanted to talk about masculinity and you talked about terrible television in an excited high-pitched voice that made me angry and hurt my head when all I wanted was to do club drugs and listen to thick beautiful sounds and when none of that worked, you created a zine and went on the road with it and I closed the door behind you, pleased to be rid of you so I could write and lonely as fuck and somehow annoyed at my own sureness, my own successes, the insincere sources for my angst because I can stand being alone with myself in a room without doing anything with my hands and you, you excitable dillettante failure, you can’t now and you never will.

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