Well, here I am again. It’s two in the morning, and I am on my balcony with none other than American Spirit. I am not a smoker. In fact, I frown upon smokers. It’s bad for your lungs! How could you do that to your body? Please think about your organs, people!! But it’s okay, because I am not a smoker. Have I smoked 3 packs in the last week? Sure. Did I share? Of course. Not ALL three packs went into my lungs so stop looking at me like that and fix yourself. I’m not a smoker. However, occasionally, one finds themselves in a situation that warrants smoking. For example, you just found out your sister is a boy. Free pass. Someone at a bar just told you they were in love with their cousin who was murdered and now they’re afraid they won’t find love again (boy do I wish I’d known about cigarettes THAT night – yes, it happened). Free pass. Or, in my case, you are in love with a man who can’t leave his girlfriend because before he met you, he promised he wouldn’t. How can you love a man who dishonors his promises? How can you make someone abandon their home? How can you deny someone who told you, in front of their girlfriend that they were in love with you, and that you were their top priority despite the situation? How do you look in their girlfriends eyes, after she says she still won’t leave him? F r e e. P a s s.
So here’s to youth. Everyone, raise a cig to the millennial generation. Specifically, the millennial generation of Los Angeles’ hippy ass elite. I’ve got a story for you. A new one. I would say “once upon a time” but this marijuana junky infested generation says that, all time is right now. So what would “once” even fucking mean? You could call this a satire, but, everyone is entitled to their perspective. You could call it a love story but, love is everything. So, who even gets a story, except love? I am not a hippy, and at the end of this, swear on my life, that I will end this series with “and they all lived happily ever after” even if it’s not true. Since, even if it’s not true, I still do my best to parallel the writers of my public school history books. (No offense, guys, but I feel like you should’ve told us what Columbus did to the Indians. Also, while we’re all friends, PSA: Germany, tell your children about the holocaust god damn it. That is PTSD waiting to happen if they find out too late. I hear it leads to smoking.)
But I have a story for you. One that I will make sure to record with accuracy, because it will be my generation’s history, seeing as I’m the future. Not to say that I’m the ONLY future, but I’m MY future. And you’re YOUR future. Hold up, I dropped my cigarette. See? Full disclosure.
I fell in love two weeks ago. I fell in love with someone who loves me back. I fell in love with a god damn hippy. A hippy thug with a girlfriend. If this isn’t going to be the most honest, erotic, entoxicating, destructive and wholesome disclosure of my generations path, I will owe each of you a million dollars (which is what I plan to make on this best seller).
I am a lyricist, a writer, a singer and a recording artist. The love of my life is the producer who took the instruments I had, and orchestrated them to play together. Now we’re on a journey to see if he can do that with our lives. Anyone, and I mean anyone, from my parents generation would tell me to run for my life, and have some damn self-respect. My generation, though. My generation is the one who tells me to have enough self-respect to see where my journey is taking me. However, I invite all generations to walk with me and see. Let’s see if we can’t bring on a new enlightenment. At least, that’s what a hippy would say.