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[11 Apr 2004 | No Comment | ]

I was sitting on my couch this afternoon, slouched way down, with an ashtray as big as a really fucking big brick on my chest, listening to records (yes, records) and a warm thought came to me. My eighteen-year-old self would be happy with my nearly thirty-year-old self. This means I’m cool according to my eighteen-year-old self, which is good because the biggest fear of most eighteen-year-olds, besides getting your girlfriend pregnant or turning into an alcoholic, is turning sucky when you get older. My eighteen-year-old self doesn’t just think …