Everything bad that ever happened to me began at Applestock. My parents met there, of course. Silly fucking boomers -- leave it to them to take mob-think and repackage it as counterculture. Dad liked the shoes, Mom liked that she didn't have to cross her legs when she sat down in mixed company. They were Midwesterners.

If not for Minor Threat, I'd be dead of boredom, or lost in my parent's house among the piles of fondue sets, Cuisinarts, Betamax machines, cheap Monet posters, and brochures for assisted-living centers. But I have discovered the joys of homelessness, sobriety, and the free market. I am the logical outcome of my parents' solipsism. I am straight edge.

More to come, if I don't freeze tonight.

III