Pigeon life.

Last summer, nothing went according to plan. And that's saying a lot considering I didn't have many plans. This summer, I not only have plans, but an impenetrable schedule for at least two months of it. Two weeks of activist training in Los Angeles with PETA, then a solid month of touring the country with them on Warped Tour before heading down to Virginia by myself for an awesome DIY music festival. If you are in or around any of these areas, please come say hi to me or something...



June!
1st - 4th: Greyhound bus from Schenectady to Los Angeles
5th - 13th: Activist training with PETA in Los Angeles
15th: Warped Tour @ White River Amphitheater in Seattle, WA
16th: Warped Tour @ Portland Expo Center Parking Lot in Portland, OR
19th: Warped Tour @ Sleep Train Amphitheatre in San Diego, CA
20th - 21st: Warped Tour @ Pomona Fairplex in Pomona, CA
22nd: Warped Tour @ Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View, CA
23rd: Warped Tour @ Seaside Park in Ventura, CA
26th: Warped Tour @ N.M.S.U. Practice Field in Las Cruces, NM
27th: Warped Tour @ Quail Run Park in Mesa, AZ
28th: Warped Tour @ Silverton Casino Parking Lot in Las Vegas, NV
29th: Warped Tour @ Utah State Fairpark in Salt Lake City, UT
30th: Warped Tour @ Sports Authority Field at Mile High in Denver, CO

July!
3rd: Warped Tour @ Klipsch Music Center in Indianapolis, IN
5th: Warped Tour @ Molson Canadian Amphitheatre in Toronto, ON, Canada
6th: Warped Tour @ Darien Lake Performing Arts Center in Buffalo, NY
7th: Warped Tour @ PNC Bank Arts Concert Center in Holmdel, NJ
9th: Warped Tour @ Farm Bureau Live At Virginia Beach in Virginia Beach, VA
10th: Warped Tour @ Merriweather Post Pavilion in Washington, D.C.
11th: Warped Tour @ Comcast Center in Boston, MA
12th: Warped Tour @ Susquehanna Bank Center in Camden, NJ
13th - 18th: I have no idea what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go, but...
19th - 21st: I Got Brains! Fest in Blacksburg, VA
22nd: Hitchhiking or busing from Roanoke back to Schenectady

The rest of the summer will be spent preparing to move to Philadelphia! I'll be homeless until then, so if you can give me a place to stay until the end of August, that'd be awesome!

This is me currently.

As a child, I only saw a dentist one single time. For one reason or another, my parents just never brought me to one. Which is odd considering we were poor enough to have more or less full health insurance and my mother actually brought us to the doctor's over every little thing. But never to the dentist. In addition, I wasn't exactly taught about hygiene by them and was totally raised a Coca-Cola kid. The one and only time I was brought to the dentist as a child, it was to have a baby tooth removed. The last tooth I had left in my mouth to fall out never fell out, and I never tried to pull it out. So it sat in the back of my mouth with my new adult molars and just hung out loosely and lazily while the new tooth grew in underneath it. Eventually, gum grew in to fill the space between them. As one can probably imagine, eating became pretty difficult after about a year and I had to go to a dentist to get it removed surgically. That day, I was told I had some cavities. But we never went back. When I was 21 or 22, I took it upon myself to go to a dentist. I knew I had cavities, my gums bled sometimes, and some days (or weeks) were more painful in my mouth than others. I told myself I'd get whatever had to be done to ensure I keep my teeth done. Split into two appointments, I had one really deep cavity filled. The dentist was an unprofessional asshole and I didn't even get to have an initial cleaning before they decided to fill a tooth. Not only that, but the entire experience was painful, uncomfortable, and stressful. I decided to never go back, even though they told me I had at least six cavities left in my mouth.

In the last year, my teeth and gums have gotten worse. The gingivitis got so bad and my gums so sensitive that I stopped brushing them. I couldn't take the stinging and the amount of dark blood that would wind up filling my mouth, frothing over my lips with the toothpaste and staining the sink when I spat it out. I knew not brushing my teeth would only really make matters worse, but it got to a point where I honestly settled on the idea of waiting the rotting process out and dealing with it then. My wisdom teeth started moving in a little bit more, making my already compacted, crooked teeth uncomfortable, and food started getting stuck in the craters they were creating in the back of my mouth withe very meal. Then one part of my gums on the top row of my mouth started swelling really bad. It didn't hurt. It was practically numb aside from the slight feeling of pressure. As I do with most health issues, I ignored it and hoped it'd go away. It didn't. It eventually turned a dark red color. I started to think something was seriously wrong. I looked it up online and immediately began thinking I had what is called periodontitis, which is when untreated gingivitis problems cause bacteria that start eating away at pockets of your gums and eventually the bone of your teeth. The pictures I saw were gruesome, but I could see how what was going on in my mouth could get there. I had to give in and go to a dentist.

So yesterday was a really busy day; one of the busiest I've had in months, actually. It was rejuvenating in a way to have so much to do in a single outing. Kara came over early in the morning and instead of sleeping together, I woke up and we talked a lot. She was wearing the forest green short shorts I like on her with fishnets and knee-high socks. She looked so good that I could hardly handle it. I honestly think I had trouble getting back to sleep because I was so quickly turned on by her presence. She talked me into going to a dentist, though. I called my primary care location and after twenty minutes of being on hold was told I couldn't see a dentist until mid-August. I made an appointment, but decided to try the other place I knew of, too. They answered right away and their first response was, "How's 11:30 today?" I took it. I quickly ate two Boca chicken patties, drank a soda, brushed my teeth, gargled some mouthwash, and then Kara joined me on my anxious walk a block away to the tiny health care place I'd last visited to see a dentist.

The first thing we heard upon going outside was one prostitute screaming to another from across the street, "I'm wearin' just a shirt and no panties! I don't give a fuck!" Even though it was just my first appointment, I was freaking out about it like I was going in for a life-or-death surgery. I was afraid of what they might tell me. I was afraid their first response to my teeth would be a cringe and devastating "Ooooh!" or something. I was even more afraid of what solutions they'd propose for the problems in my mouth; what if it would require surgery or, even worse, quitting soda? Thankfully, I had Kara with me to keep me calm, and the paperwork I had to fill out when I got there took my mind off of it until they called my name to go into the back. The dentist lady who took care of me was very pleasant and didn't seem annoyed by all my wordy questions and concerns. The technology they were using was nothing like what I'd experienced three or so years earlier. To my relief, when I showed her my gum she didn't even wince or think it was that big of a deal, though she did refer to it as looking "angry". I was with her for over an hour, undergoing what was the first full teeth cleaning I'd ever had in my entire life. She used a cavinator to wash out cracks, which hurt only when pressing against certain areas of my sensitive gums, then scraped away everything else, including several areas of plaque that caused her to use the words "good golly". It was very uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and I had some ceiling poster with palindromes, mazes, and trivia on it to keep my mind distracted. To do the top of my mouth's row of gums, she applied a lot of anesthetic gel. It made it a lot easier to get through as she cleaned around the worst parts of my gums, especially around where it had begun to swell so intensely. She gave them a full whitening and then flossed the shit out of them. I'd never flossed before, either.

When she was done and I was able to drink some water to flush my mouth of all the debris from my teeth, my entire jaw felt lighter. There was a lot of blood, but everything felt ten times better. She told me my mouth did have a fighting chance as long as I immediately started brushing twice a day, flossing, and using mouthwash. She said if I started doing that, the swelling would eventually go down. I felt so relieved, but I knew we still had to deal with the cavities eventually, as well as the wisdom teeth, which X-rays showed had grown in sideways, standing vertically with their crowns pointing towards each other from each side of my mouth. I saw another dentist after and he gave my mouth a quick viewing. He said I had at least three cavities and set me up an appointment for later this month to get one or more filled. I was glad I went, but I'm still absolutely terrified of going back to get my cavities filled.

When we got back to the house, we began a day of errands. It was all four of us, which was nice. Even Tia invited herself along for a change. First stop was the post office so I could send a Pigeon Life hat out to California. Then we went to Rotterdam Square Mall so I could try and sell my entire DVD collection. I hadn't bought a DVD in at least a year and as downloading movies or watching them on Netflix was becoming easier, the technology itself was becoming totally obsolete to me. For a long time now, I've gotten rid of material possessions without frequent and practical use from my life almost entirely... except for this rack of DVDs. Not only did I not need them anymore, I needed some extra cash and needed to liberate one more needless material aspect from my life. I didn't have very high hopes. Matt had just recently sold his entire collection and made just under $300, but my collection consisted of independent film and discs that had been used a hundred times each and were probably marked up. Kara and Tia went looking for underwear while Matt and I tried to sell stuff while enjoying the banter of the two FYE employees. Matt was trying to sell the rest of his CDs, most of which they didn't take, and to my surprise they actually took the majority of what I had, though some DVDs were only worth 25¢ or 50¢. I ended up with $80 and some change! I'll give the rest of the DVDs away. From there, we went for dinner at Moe's since it was a Monday; on Mondays, all burritos are one flat price, even if they have guacamole!

Thankfully, two places we needed to go to were in the same plaza, so we were able to walk right over to Goodwill. I had to find a pair of slacks for being at the office during the two-week activist training in Los Angeles, as well as rolling luggage for the traveling. Obviously, I've never done anything in my life besides go to court where dressing formally was required, so it was a bit weird going to try and find slacks. Even worse, I knew finding a pair that would fit me would probably break my heart a little more about my size. But I had to do what I had to do. They didn't have any rolling luggage, but I was able to find pants and even a pair of shorts pretty quickly. I grabbed what I thought my waist size was and then one pair that I thought was too big for me. It wasn't fun discovering the latter was what fit me best. I couldn't stay sad for long, though, because Matt pointed out that they had unused fingerboards for $2 and an official Tech Deck ramp with grinding rail made of real wood for $15! I was so pumped about it. It looked like they'd dumpstered a bunch of fingerboard stuff or something. I found a lone fingerboard taken out of its package, so I pocketed it. After that, Kara and I had to make copies of zines over at Staples. I always have anxiety there if we're using both of the two machines. I wish I could get published just so I wouldn't have to make copies anymore. The demand for Pigeon Life is only getting bigger and harder to keep up with, which is both awesome and exhausting. When we got back to the house, I helped Kara set up her Boo Bunny Vegan Baking Facebook page.


Siiiiiiiick.


A child-size VEGAN shirt by Motive Company was at Goodwill! So either a small child was vegan and outgrew it or a small child broke veg!

The weather has been consistently nice. I wish I could be happier about it, but it doesn't change where I live and what I could be doing to bide my time. I still spend a lot of time alone at the apartment. Matt has been working a lot of hours again to try and save up to move. Tia works part-time, but sleeps or sits in her bedroom alone when she doesn't. I see Kara once a week. Spring in the ghetto is an interesting thing. Obviously, a lot more people are out and about. In my neighborhood, the prostitutes dress a lot younger. There's the tiny dog that yaps from 6 in the morning until 3 in the morning. There's the house at the corner that blasts music whose nationality I cannot pinpoint because it sounds like Mexicana music playing over middles-eastern music. They also give haircuts there and I'm pretty sure they steal bikes. Nighttime has a lot more screaming than usual. The sirens get so loud that it seems like the end of the world. The other night, it sounded like at least a dozen cop cars, one firetruck, and one ambulance all at once. Weed sneaks in through the screen in the kitchen and gives me sneezes and a headache. Large groups play dice outside of one of the many convenience stores on Albany Street. Motorcycles and shiny cars with loud mufflers zoom up our short block like they're running from the cops. Everyone is on their stoop, listening to their music as loudly as possible. You'd be surprised at how many people you can fit on a single porch. Snuggles never wants to come inside. We have a lot of bumblebees around our apartment. One just hangs out by the kitchen window. I'm beginning to think she might be the designated hive guard or something.






I'm trying to get some things done before I leave for California. I'm almost completely caught up chronologically in this blog, I have some stock of zines to fold and staple for when I'm gone, and we all need to start getting ready and packed to move out of this apartment by the end of the month. I was considering visiting people on the way to LA, but I think I'm just gonna save my money an go straight there at the very beginning of June. Lots of good things in the horizon, I think.

This vague but overwhelming yearning makes my entire body feel like it's breathing. It's like a quiet and subtle vibration that rumbles over every inch of my body inside and out. It's almost like hunger, but I don't necessarily feel it in my stomach. And it's somewhat like intense sexual frustration, but I don't feel it just in my crotch. It's like I'm tired or exhausted, but it's particularly strong in my muscles or head. It happens most when I go out into public, but I know it's not my social anxiety. I just know that I need something and I need it so bad that the prospect of never obtaining it practically sweeps me right off my feet like a rug being pulled out from underneath me or a hand towel soaked in chloroform pressed against my open mouth. I know I need relief or release of some sort, but can't pinpoint the type or the manner with which whatever can be released.

Usually, I just chalk it up to sexual frustration. I go home and masturbate to some online porn, cum, and then still feel it. There might be some momentary relief, only due to the natural shame men typically feel post-orgasm distracting me from it. It wells right back up. It hit me recently that it may be partly due to a constant and unrelenting yearning for physical and/or sexual contact with other people, sure, but it's mostly a result of wanting love. Yeah, I want sex on a regular basis, which always came with my long-term relationships, but I also want sex that feels like a dance with someone who wants me in more ways than their natural animalistic urges dictate. I want to sleep with someone every night, with or without sex, and feel connected to someone deeply. I want to know that my existence means that particular something to someone else. My friends love me and likely would be devastated if anything were to ever happen to me, but I want someone whose life would end with mine if I were to ever go. I want that reciprocated need, that fiery passion, that over-dramatic and irrational infatuation I remember from when I was young and had just discovered that girls noticed me, that journey with someone else, that shared gaze unique to a couple who are crazy about each other, that consistency.

I've had sex a measly three times this year so far, only to completion once. I've masturbated countless times aside from that. I probably masturbate more now than I did when I first noticed my erections as a little kid. The sex was fulfilling, but not in the ways I think I wanted or needed. Sex feels good and I definitely wish I was having a lot more of it, but even when I have had sex over the least year or so, it lacked something and left me feeling empty and disconnected. It was like an electronic device being unplugged as soon as my dick exited their bodies and I instantly returned to lifelessness. And even in the act, I felt like a bad actor, or someone just doing their job. Maybe I just wasn't necessarily attracted to them; maybe it was because of how unused to sex I am now. But I think it might be because I felt nothing exciting for them. Perhaps accepting any and all sexual propositions that come way just because the chance is so rare is what's causing it, I don't know. But I'm pretty sure that it could be a whole lot better if there was some extra dimension behind our fleeting sexual duels.

I don't think I'm in love with Kara anymore. She's done so much since last April to push me away, hurt me, disappoint me, and violently drag me along that I think she's successfully made it impossible to love her. She'll always be my best friend and we'll always have that strong, indestructible bond, but I can't love someone who's been so mean and misleading to me. But now I'm back where I was before I'd chosen her (or it had chosen us), with no clear direction to take. It's a lot like hitchhiking, love is, and I feel like I'm by the on-ramp, still waiting for that next car to pick me up and take me somewhere new. But it's been so long and even though the odds are in my favor it still feels like it will never happen again. Long waits feel more like an eternity when you're in them alone. I see people who I can fantasize about realistic relationships with. I spend far too much time looking at people I kind of know on Facebook. I spend even more being infatuated with people from Tumblr; the girl from New Jersey, the homeless girl from North Carolina, the mysterious girl from Brazil. But none of them are really real and have probably never spied on my blog the same way I've done theirs. I don't think the problem is as much me finding someone I could be sincerely interested or involved in as it is finding someone who will find me equally as amazing. This is probably because I'm not as amazing as any of the people I could see myself with and never will be. Being in love is nice. Just having a crush that is at least momentarily humored by the other person in question is mind-blowingly exciting and rejuvenating. But I'm not in love with anyone and my crushes live in other states or countries. I can do a lot of things to feel alive, but the part of me that remains empty as long as I'm lacking a special someone still makes me feel hollow and light enough to be taken away by a strong enough breeze.

I wish there was a way to masturbate the heart. I can make myself cum all I want, but I'll never be able to mimic what one can get out of the affections of another. I can't stare at myself and see through the deformities and scowl; I can't cuddle myself to sleep and the pillows I squeeze in my sleep will never suffice; I can't kiss myself; I can't love myself the same way I want someone else to. I can ejaculate into a rag, but I can't put butterflies in my own stomach.

I hope I meet someone soon. I'm so sick of feeling like a widower too old to fall in love again before he dies.

Hi Dave,
Congratulations! After reviewing your application further, we are pleased to offer you a spot on Team One of this summer's tour crew.
Team one's duration on Warped Tour is June 14 (in Seattle) to July 12 (in Camden, N.J).
We will have a summer training session in peta2's Bob Barker Building (2154 W Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90026) beginning on June 5, after which the team will hit the road.
You will be responsible for arranging your own transportation to get to Los Angeles for training on June 4 and leaving tour on the morning of July 13 in Camden, N.J.
Once you're here in Los Angeles, transportation from the airport, lodging, and lunch will be covered daily.
Once the team is on the road, you will receive a weekly stipend of $350 and three healthy vegan meals a day. All transportation and housing costs on the road will be covered by PETA.
Please confirm your acceptance of this offer as soon as possible so that I can go ahead and arrange your housing while you'll be in Los Angeles.
Thanks, and I look forward to hearing back from you again soon!


I did it. I got accepted by PETA to intern with their tour crew this summer. I can hardly believe it. When I went to my e-mail the day before yesterday and saw the visible start to the message include the word "congratulations", I still didn't believe it until I opened it and read it from the beginning to the end. Then I had to read it a second time. I can't really remember the last time I smiled without having control over it like I did at that moment. It's been a year of very little good, give or take a few days that were more tolerable than others (albeit usually at some monetary price). 2012, as previously stated in this blog, was the worst year I've had since 2008, and 2013 certainly hasn't been much better. So this accomplishment really came out of nowhere, like being hit by lightning in the best possible way. It almost makes the bad preceding it feel meaningless, but I might just be blinded by excitement and will come down from it in a few days.

I applied to be an intern for PETA in March. For the first time in my life, I wrote a résumé and cover letter for something. I've only worked a real job twice in my whole life and both times were only for a few months each. I've never gone to college and am a high school dropout. Needless to say, the core of my initial submission to them was me trying to word my unprofessional and socially unconventional life in a way that made my abilities and reliability shine, which was pretty hard and would have been a lot harder if I didn't have a knack for words. I wrote about my years of DIY endeavors: writing, publishing, selling, marketing, and tabling my zines for the last two years; booking my own concerts and tabling literature at them for the last four; being an avid blogger, writer, and moderately significant presence in certain circles on the Internet via Tumblr and the like; having hitchhiked the entire country over the last four years. At best, I figured these things showed that I was passionate, dedicated, independent, and prepared for unique circumstances and sacrifice. I still found myself worrying, though, that the privileged middle class college students who had jobs, extracurricular high school activities, and memberships in groups on their campuses to boast about would make me invisible to their radar. I knew deep down that I was qualified for this internship, if for no other reason than the intensity with which my heart rests in the issue of total and uncompromised animal rights, but it definitely wouldn't have been the first time one's adherence to the status quo got them further than me. I tried to show that I was also broadly qualified by their own listed requirements, too, though. On the site, they said they were looking for the following:
- Responsible and able to work independently
I was able to show this by bringing up all of the DIY stuff I've gotten myself into and flourished in, having traveled by myself a lot, having marketed my own writing and tabled them at several festivals around the country, having set up my own concerts with local and touring acts, having lived on my own for most of my adult life.
- Prepared and able to travel extensively for up to three months at a time
This was a no-brainer. I've hitchhiked the country across about thirty states and was on the road for over three months during my last trip with Kara. Talking to strangers, sleeping in weird places, and being constantly on the go was not only a reality that I've lived, it was something that I usually preferred over idle house life.
- At least 21 years of age
Check. I'm now 25.
- A careful driver with a clean driving record of at least three years and no major violations in the last five years
This one threw me off. Thankfully, Grace had talked to some PETA members who visited her campus before and they told her that not being able to drive was not enough of a reason for PETA to deny someone. One of them didn't drive, in fact. I made sure to tell them I didn't drive for both financial and ethical reasons. I feared that, if anything, this would hurt me the most, though.
- Able to lift 50lbs. repeatedly
C'mon, I got mad upper-body strength.
- Supportive of PETA's philosophy and able to proficiently advocate PETA's positions on animal issues
This was a pretty convenient requirement, too. After all, I had been defending PETA constantly throughout my Tumblr career due to how often vegans rail against them without having any sound reason why. I made sure to let them know I had written several essays defending PETA's practices and I hope that they eventually give me an excuse to share them with them.
- Able to travel to Canada
This was the hard part. At first, I thought I was going to have to get a passport. But when I went to the post office and inquired about it, I was informed it would cost me $150 and the documents I needed to qualify were very specific and maybe even out of my grasps. That was just way too much money for me to give away in one place, especially for something I probably wouldn't ever use, or at least wouldn't be using any time soon. After reading up on enhanced IDs, I found out that having one was enough to cross into Canada and back without a full passport. So I went to the DMV and attempted to sign up for one. The stringent requirements to verify your identity and citizenship before you could qualify for one were insane and ridiculous: You need two pieces of dated mail with your current address and addressed to your full official name (in my case, it couldn't be anything short of saying David M. Gunn, Jr.); your real Social security card; your birth certificate (an official hard copy, not a photocopy); and then, of course, you had to fill out their application. I had to dig through a giant box dubbed my "memory box" to find my Social Security card, but I did eventually find it. I couldn't find my copy of my own birth certificate and only had one photocopy, so I wound up having to call my mother and have her deliver her copy to me. The copy I now have is the real certificate given upon my actual birth, which is weird. The mail part is what wound up causing me so much grief. They wouldn't take mail that just said "dave gunn", nor would they take something that said "David Gunn" without my middle initial and without the "Jr." suffix. In fact, they wouldn't even take mail that had a joke nickname in quotes (I tried to use an envelope that Greg had sent me mail in, which he addressed to "dave 'fun' gunn"). They wouldn't take my bank statement because the name on it only said "D Gunn". They wouldn't even take the Social Security disability packet I tried to use even though it declared inside of it under risk of perjury what my full name, Social Security number, birth date, and current mailing address were. I wound up going there six fucking times before they said I was okay. Some of the most infuriating moments of my life happened at the DMV. I guess all those stand-up comedians weren't kidding. I now have an enhanced license, meaning I can cross the border and back, though I feel uncomfortable using it because it has an RFID chip inside of it. Good thing I still have my old license to use for everything else.

After my first e-mail to them with the attached information, they e-mailed me back within two weeks and asked me to fill out their intern application. I did and it was really simple. It just asked me to reiterate personal information, if I was vegetarian or vegan, what about animal issues concerned me the most, et cetera. I filled it out and sent it back as an attachment in my e-mail response. And then I didn't hear from them for almost four weeks. After two, I actually e-mailed them again and asked them if there were any problems. Suddenly, on the 14th, I got an e-mail from them saying that they needed me to send them that application I had already done by the 16th or I would be immediately rejected. I told them right away that I had already sent it to them and attached it again. A couple days later, they told me they wanted to set up an interview through Skype or phone. It was one of the most nerve-wracking prospects I'd ever encountered. I sat in front of my computer screen with my Skype up, having only used the program twice in my entire life. I got an instant message from the guy in PETA, but he eventually told me he was having connection issues and was just going to call me. That made me feel a little better. I think face-to-face, even through a screen, would have been even more stressful. He called and was really formal. He asked if I had any questions, of which I only was curious about technical details pertaining to the tour itself, and repeated what I was getting myself into. He then asked me if I'd be prepared to be on my feet every day in hot weather. I brought up my hitchhiking experience. He then asked if I'd be okay sleeping on the bus and having little to no privacy. I again brought up my hitchhiking experience. Lastly, he asked if I would be able to talk to strangers on a regular basis. Of course, I again brought up my hitchhiking experience. It was weird just how experienced for something mere hitchhiking had made me. He asked me about my veganism and I was able to give him my perfectly appropriate spiel about how PETA was actually responsible for getting me to quit meat and become interested in animal rights through their tour outreach stands when I was fourteen. I told him that I wanted to be on the team because I knew first-hand that what they did was effective.

He then put me through three hypothetical dialogs to see how I would respond. The goal was to be as concise and brief as possible, since talking to people while on tour will usually be fleeting as the daily bustle of the festival will have literally thousands of people coming and going every minute. The first one was if someone came up and asked what the stand was all about. I stuttered and was not proud of my response, honestly. It was weird sounding passionate and knowledgeable in a hypothetical response to someone who was already vegan and I was deathly concerned with impressing him, which only made me sound stupid. The two other questions were perfect, though. One was how I would respond to someone who said, "But PETA kills puppies!" I had mastered my response to that already thanks to Tumblr. The third was if someone said, "But the Bible says animals are for us to eat!" another thing I had already researched and come up with a sound response to. The fact was that I had thought of literally every angle someone could approach veganism from and was ready for just about any argument someone could throw at me. I made sure I let the guy from PETA know that. The phone call ended after a half hour and I felt pretty good about it. Now, two weeks later, here I am: I got my acceptance e-mail and I will be leaving in May to get to Los Angeles by June 4th for activist bootcamp before heading to Seattle to begin a month-long tour with Warped Tour all over the country, spending long bouts on the bus, in hotels, and standing around talking to strangers about veganism, maybe even changing lives the way mine was changed by a PETA intern eleven years ago.

I'm so fucking excited. This is the hugest thing I've ever attempted for myself, honestly. For the most part, I haven't tried anything that didn't completely rely on me and me only. I fear rejection and have a general disliking for situations where I put my future into the hands of others. I also have done all I can to avoid committing myself to anything in the long-term over the last four years. So while interning for PETA has been a dream of mine for a long time, it was in many ways something totally outside of my realm of comfort. It means a lot that it's worked out and that my hard work and determination has actually paid off. Hard work has very rarely worked out in my favor and taking chances usually has fucked me over, so this is a great change of pace. This internship gives me hope for my summer, whereas last summer was a total flop. This helps ensure I have a summer to look forward to even though I won't be with Kara. It also will give me an opportunity to save up some money and relearn how to be without her by my side. This is exactly what my life needs right now.

The day I got the e-mail was weird, though. It was a total car crash of opposite emotions. The day started off with Kara waking me up on the phone. She was sobbing and told me the bad news: Her bunny, Boo, had to be put to sleep. She had stopped eating, drinking, and pooping a few days before. Kara told me as soon as she noticed Boo was acting differently. Of course, as her mom, she noticed even the smallest things as soon as they arose. We both assumed she was sick, probably from eating fabric the day before or something. She wasn't improving and just laying around a lot, so Kara took her to the vet. They decided to keep her overnight. By the next day, they had done X-rays on her and discovered both her kidneys, one more so than the other, were filled with stones. Surgery was impractical and Boo was in an incredible amount of pain. There was no other option. Kara got to visit her one last time and hang out with her. She then got to hold her after she got the shot. Boo was never a bunny who let people pick her up, but was peaceful this time when Kara held her, from what she told me. After I got that call, I couldn't get up. I went to the bathroom, told Tia and Matt, and just went back to bed. I almost cried, but stopped myself. I loved Boo. Nowhere near as much as Kara, of course. I think how hard I knew it would hurt Kara might have made me the saddest. A few hours later, I got the exciting e-mail. It couldn't have come at a worse time that day. Kara was coming over to spend the day because she didn't want to be alone in her room with Boo's set-up still there and I obviously wanted to be there for her. When she got to the door, I hugged her, asked her if she was okay, and told her I'd been accepted by PETA. I think we were both sad about Boo and excited for me at the same time, which was honestly pretty uncomfortable a mix of emotions. It was nice having others excited for me on Facebook and only two or three people had disparaging remarks to make about PETA when I mentioned it on Tumblr. I tried to console Kara with all I could offer: hugs, conversation, a burrito at Moe's, and Mario Party.

Some other cool things have happened, too. After a pretty dry month as far as zines sales go and being broke from going to both Buffalo and Richmond this month, I suddenly sold a bunch of zines in only two days. One $23 order, then another $23 order, one $5 order, and then Sage from Olympia bought eight more copies of "Pigeon Life" to distro. This came at the right time, too. I'd only sold three zines at Quimby's in the last two months. I'd been contacted and asked to submit zines to be sold at an art exhibit in Savannah, GA, too, and after the week-long exhibit was up I'd only sold one zine. Thankfully, they paid to send everything back to me, with a measly two bucks in an envelope.

Then, just yesterday, I got a message over Etsy from an intern at the Which Side podcast asking me if I would be interested in being a guest on their show.
Dave,
My name is Meagan, I’m an intern for the Which Side Podcast. Which Side is hosted by long time animal rights activist Jordan Halliday and Jeremy Parkin. Each episode Jordan and Jeremy sit down and hang out with people in the animal, earth, and anarchist spheres. We would love to feature you as a guest in an upcoming episode. Let us know if you are interested.
Apparently, they're an anarchist animal rights show hosted in part by a long-time vegan straightedge animal rights activist who spent some time in jail a few years ago named Jordan Halliday. Of course, I told them I was definitely interested, though I have no idea what I could have possibly done to even be considered. We'll see what happens with that, I guess. Honestly, it's enough of an honor to even be considered.

Oh, and I caved in and made a new Tumblr! If you want, please follow me there again! It's so nice being back on there, though I fear I'll be deleted again any day. Every time I click the Tumblr tab in my bookmarks, I fear it will show up suspended. This time around, I marked my blog as "NSFW", so maybe that will protect me until they update their guidelines again without notice and I accidentally disobey something trivial and arbitrary. People are so nice and supportive on there and, unlike in real life, I feel like I'm actually noticed. I think I just may need this blogging life more than my real life sometimes.

My best friends and I have some serious plans, too. We'd been waiting for me to hear back from PETA in part so we could begin our master plan to finally escape the 518 and move to a city that we deserve. In this case, that city is going to be Philadelphia. Matt, Tia, Kara, and I are going to move there by the fall. It's been being discussed for a month or so now and Matt and I are 100% invested in it at this point, with Tia and Kara less enthusiastically determined by our side. Now that I've been accepted by PETA and know exactly what my schedule with them is going to be, we have solidified the plan, which is long and going to involve some serious sacrifice and struggle from all of us, mostly Matt and myself. We're going to move out of this shitty apartment in May. As of the 1st, we'll be gradually getting our shit out of here and returning to near-homelessness so we can begin saving up for the big move. I'll be out of here and on my way to California by mid-May and Matt and Tia will be out of here by June 1st. Tia's going back to her mother's for the time being and Matt will be sleeping on his parents' living room floor. Once I get back from my trip with PETA, I'll be homeless again. I'm considering trying to stay at my grandmother's again, though that seems to get worse each and every time I attempt it. It's honestly hard to decide which circumstance is worse: being homeless in Schenectady again or staying with her again. Either way, we'll all be struggling together while apart like we were before we moved into this apartment. The only difference is that, this time, it will be in the name of patiently awaiting our grand liberation from the concrete hell that is our hometown. The goal is to each save up at least $2,000. By the end of August/the beginning of September, Matt's going to quit his job and we're both going to drive down to Philadelphia, live in his car, and scout out a four-bedroom apartment. We've been looking at Craigslist and it appears as though we'll have no trouble finding an affordable place to live in a prime part of the city, though we're more than prepared to settle on a bad part of town or an outlying area of the city. We've actually been seeing a lot of posts for four-bedroom in South Philly for only $800 or so a month, which is extraordinary. Ideally, we'll find an apartment and nail it within the month or two. We'll take a bus back up to Schenectady from there and rent a U-Haul and the actual move will begin. This is all a pretty scary endeavor, but I know that I need to finally move from here or else I'll be dead before the end of the year. Moving to a real city where there is real culture, abundant opportunity, and a real chance at being able to live a life of enjoyment around people who I might actually find interesting is what I need to do if I don't want to die here. And at this point, we're prepared to do whatever it fucking takes to ensure that we get there. Hopefully, by the end of this year, we'll all be residents of Philadelphia. You'll see.

So what just may be one of the biggest parts of my grown-up life begins today. I need to shave my head and start figuring out my itinerary for May. I'm thinking about making the trek to the west coast a small trip where I can reacquaint myself with traveling alone. There's no fucking way I'm flying, I know that much. Tia's going to get some boxes from her work and we'll be ready to move within the first two weeks of the month. I want to make sure I'm around to help them before I leave. It wouldn't be fair if they moved all the big stuff without me. I need to finish my next zine, which is about suicide. I need to finally catch up to the chronology of my own life on this blog, too. So expect a lot of entries coming up in the next week or two. It is a new day and for the first time in over a year, it actually feels new instead of secondhand. The sad things are still sad. I still have rotting teeth and woke up with blood on my pillow today, presumably from my gums. I've watched two entire seasons of Kitchen Nightmares and sleep alone every night still, but I think those realities can finally be shelved for now. There's finally some shit to counter them. Wish me luck!

I will show everyone that a strong DIY ethic and merely refusing to ever shut the fuck about what you believe in can in fact get you somewhere that you want to be.

I think about suicide a lot.

Most of the time--almost all of the time--I'm some variation of sad, angry, lonely, fed-up, and uncomfortable. The worst part is that I don't even really think about killing myself because of the depression as much as it just feels like the most sensible solution to a life that is so physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausting. It's like I've been awake for years and I just want to finally be able to sleep. A lot of the time, life and the way I'm feeling is like a faucet that won't stop dripping: It's usually not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, but after a while you are going to reach a breaking point and do whatever the fuck will make that dropping sound cease. My long, almost daily contemplations of suicide have plenty of time to fester throughout the week, especially since I constantly find myself sitting at this table in an empty apartment, blanketed in darkness while I writhe in my fat flesh imprisonment, loud music serving as the only relief from the screaming in my head. Most days, it feels like I've done all I can to try and be happy these last five years--and I've done a good job for a few months at a time--but now I'm just waiting for my body to catch up with my brain's readiness to shut off. I'm exhausted by the way I feel. The routine of sleeping, eating, waiting, scheming, and hoping isn't worth the energy it requires.

I don't get to do things I wish I was doing as often as I'd like, or even at all. I think the way society operates has for the most part made it nearly impossible to survive and enjoy life at the same time and it's just becoming impossibly stressful trying to balance my ethics with the bare minimum of comfort I can handle allowing myself in the process. I am freer than others in many ways thanks to the decisions and lifestyle choices I've made; in many other ways, I've imprisoned myself and am just as restricted as the rest of them. The person I've become keeps me alone and creates a mutually alienating relationship between me and the rest of the world, particularly my generation. My desire to have a stable living base with a moderately comfortable bed and wifi keeps me away from being truly free. Things take too long to happen these days anyway, if they even happen at all. Most of the time, nothing is happening unless it's soul-crushing, routine, or annoying.

I'm at the guillotine and the wait for the blade to drop is taking forever, it seems.

Sometimes I feel anxious because suicide seems like such an inevitability that it no longer feels like a matter of personal choice. In the back of my mind, it's not an issue of if, but how and when. I've always felt that I'd definitely die by my own hands, and I wouldn't want it any other way when I think about it objectively, but as of late it feels like something that is not only going to happen sooner than later, but something that has to happen sooner than later. It kind of feels like I have a terminal illness and I know with all certainty that I'm going to die soon. On my better days, I even feel panicky about it because the prospect of having to kill myself soon feels so set in stone and unavoidable. On the other days, I feel a sense of relief in many ways knowing that it will eventually all be over. Unfortunately, the looming presence of death does not impact me enough to move. Honestly, it feels like all my bones are broken at this point.

I continue to try as much as my body and mind will allow. Unfortunately, my sole motivation for saying yes to various propositions from others is usually to prove to myself and others that "I'm trying" and that no one can say I'm not, with expectations that my feelings of hopelessness and hate will be reaffirmed. I try to make the most of situations and I embrace when they present themselves, whether they be in the form of new people, new settings, or new experiences, but most of the time I'm left feeling like I settled for far less than I desire, wasted my time on nouns that would reinforce my misanthropy and claustrophobia, and like I should never leave the house ever again. I'm not normal and never will be. I'm broken and I will never be able to successfully adapt to my surroundings or assimilate to the society and generation that I've been unfortunate enough to be born to. Even with pills, I'll never be able to combat and overcome the mental ills that turn seemingly average situations into burning buildings that I feel I must escape.

If my heart were an apple, all that would be left at this point is a rotten core. Each person I've ever cared about or loved has taken a big bite out of it and I don't think there's anything left for anyone. Kara might have been the last person to get a taste of what my heart was capable of, but even at that point I was so far gone that I never was able to fully give myself to her. It's like my heart only has enough of itself left to handle pumping blood and longing for more. I get no relief from how broken and mangled my heart is. The only solace I can find in that is I don't think it's possible to hurt any more than I already do. Kara, all my ex-girlfriends, all the friends who have abandoned me, my parents, the world around me: they are all knives plunged as deep into my abdomen as they can go. The sharp pain and feelings of internal bruising coupled with the drowsiness from shock and blood loss is as bad as it can get, but the pain is continuous and unrelenting. Each day, I feel less and less up to the challenge of enduring how bad it all feels. The pills sometimes keep the poking and prodding of everyday life's horrors and disappointments at a safe distance, and sometimes I'm capable of being distracted from the pain by some temporarily soothing moment in time, but I can't come up with any other cure for the pain than to go straight to the cause: kill myself and finally put an end to the agony that is really just something manifested by my brain and real enough to actually feel like my heart is about to literally clog up until it bursts.

I can't think of any other option and even when I try to convince myself that I'm just crazy and should take two pills today instead of one, suicide is the only practical recourse I can conjure. I'm sick of waiting for things to get better. I'm doubled over, clenching my gut from the chronic pain inside of me and unable to withstand the weight of my regrets, mistakes, and shortcomings.

As I sit here another lonely night at the table with my elbows laying atop it, I feel like I'm deserted in the middle of some anonymous ocean, kept afloat only by a piece of wooden debris following a catastrophe. A panoramic view of my desolate surroundings assure me that there is nothing nearby, let alone close enough for my already weakened and trembling arms to swim to, and the blurred horizon line wraps around me like piano wire around my throat. My fingertips and toes hurt from how cold it is. If I close one eye and reach out, it's almost like I can touch something besides these cold currents that are sharp like knives to the touch and this piece of wood that serves somewhere between a cot and a coffin. But these outstretched arms cannot reach anything or anyone and if I were to hold myself I would just sink. If I were to scream and cry, it would only exist in my own head. If a man screams in agony and there's no one around to hear it, does he make a sound? I believe so, but your sounds and pain and flesh and memories and stories don't matter when no one's around to give them something to bounce off of, something from which they can reverberate and be born again. The reality is that I am just at a table in my crummy apartment, alone and shivering from the cold. I'm drinking a can of Pepsi that hurts my hands to pick up. Even still, I might as well be in the middle of the ocean. I feel like I've either exhausted any and all resources I once could have used to save my own life, or overlooked them until long after they expired. Most of my days are spent floating idly or drowning, tired of relying on my own tired buoyancy and desperately seeking some other reliable floatation device.

On some nights, while here all alone, I sit and daydream of being victim to some sort of home invasion or robbery. If someone were to barge in and shoot me dead where I sit, how long would it be before my loved ones found out? It's not likely, but the fantasy brings to light just how often I am physically alone in my life. We all die alone in some sense, but the likelihood of me doing so is significantly greater for me than a lot of other people I know. More often than not, if I were to die or be dying, I'd have no one to reach out to for help. I would at least have no one I care about or trust readily available by my side. I wouldn't be able to dramatically say goodbye as I gasp for my last breath while cradled in their arms. I wouldn't be able to slowly lose vision as I slip from consciousness and catch them frantically scrambling to figure out how to rescue me. It would just be me, dying, all by myself, probably on the cold tile floor. I would leave behind no legacy or impact on the world outside of this stupid blog and cached entries on Tumblr that will one day disappear from their databases. I wouldn't have a girlfriend to mourn my death, nor a family who could do so sincerely. The three people closest to me would carry on because they've already had enough practice in doing so. Many would potentially exchange anecdotes and vague recollections of times spent with me, but their stories would be short and simple and mostly composed of filler and embellishments. I do not eat away at the hearts of anyone the way each and every person I've ever cared about has chipped away at mine.

I spend my evenings missing people who probably never think about me and obsessing over people I've never even met. They're like imaginary friends, except none of them like or notice me; to them, my existence isn't even substantiated by question. But they're really all I have when I lay in dark rooms and gaze into the hypnotic glare of my laptop screen. Whether awake or dreaming, they make up most of my human interactions and interests. I don't meet many new people nowadays. Even if I do, I know I will leave as little an impact on their life and memory as they will on mine: something just short of as intriguing as a mosquito bite. The three people who are actually close to me have made it clear, whether they know it or not, that I am not as crucial to their lives as they are to mine. Not only does that remind me how insignificant I am, but it scares me. The people I care about are like food that sustains me, while I'm just a snack to pass the time for them. Either way, they all have family, other friends, jobs, distractions, crushes. More than I can bear, I'm left with no one but those who have come and gone and now only exist in my head, or those who I have not yet met. Some of them, I've long-since forgotten the sound of their voices, or so I think. For others, I've never actually heard their voice before. I can go on the Internet and make them feel real for a moment. Some of them have YouTube videos and I can watch them so I can remember for another year what they sound like and what their faces do when they speak or express emotion of some kind. I can find them on Facebook and look at their pictures; see their new boyfriends, their new homes, the experiences I likely would have obstructed them from having. The people I've known can't and won't leave; they permanently infect me like something intrusive but benign. The people I've never actually known won't leave because they've never been here to begin with, and I'm granted the opportunity to continue romanticizing them. Regardless, none of these people know I think about them, and it will never cross their minds that maybe I do sometimes, for they never think about me.

When you have no one to love, all you can do is think about those you once did, or those who you convince yourself you could if they only gave you the opportunity to. When no one loves you, all you can do is think about those who once did and no longer do. It's much like being trapped on one block for the rest of your life: you can either turn around and go to one end, continue onward until you get to that end, or just stay somewhere in the middle. No fork in the road, no roundabout, no one-way streets, no turns.

I want so badly to fall in love with someone. At this point, I think I might want to want someone more than I want someone to want me. Maybe if I could just feel genuinely compelled by someone new, it could at least temporarily stomp out these little fires left behind by people from my past that burn around my brain. I've had enough time alone. I've had enough bouts with unrequited love. I've spent enough time convincing myself I'm falling for people just so I can feel like I'm feeling something besides misanthropy and bitterness. I've had enough time with ghosts and enough late-night sessions of introspection to know what I did wrong and when and to whom. My heart is mature, I think, and ready for the greatest love one can imagine. I want to feel accompanied. I want to take care of someone and be taken care of. I want someone to start a family with so I can finally get over the fact that I don't have one. I want someone to be my home so I can stop worrying about living in one. I want to know that someone will find my body before it has the chance to start rotting.

It's in the shape of a slice of pizza because it's all about the vegan pizzas we've had around the country. Reviews and photo collages and stuff. We think it's pretty cool. If you do, too, consider picking one up for $3 on my Etsy.

Being a kid is always characterized as this agonizing journey--and it definitely was--but I can't say that adulthood has been much better. It might even be worse, this second and more ruthless puberty, but I'm trying to maintain a clear perspective and remind myself that everything always seems better when it's in retrospect; that it's always easy to romanticize what you've never had or no longer have; that with nostalgia oftentimes comes delusion. You'll never want $20 more than before you earn it and after you've spent it. Growing up has been just as uncomfortable and awkward for me and if I didn't know better I'd say that the streaks of joy and excitement have gotten shorter and fewer, the pings of sadness and loneliness and hopelessness have grown stronger and more chronic, and either the struggles have become more powerful and intense or I've just become gradually weaker despite the daily workout each and every day on this planet gives me to prepare and practice for the next disaster. Maybe it's just because the last year has been the worst one I've had since 2008, but I've been haunted by the old versions of myself more than usual lately and homesick for the old places I'd escape from home to when I was younger. For the most part, I am happy with the person I've turned out to be, but it's hard to be too content with it when no one else joined you on the road you traveled and you're the only one stoked on the you that you are. And while I'm definitely freer than I've ever been in my entire life, there are less outlets, escape routes, and sanctuaries than there ever has been. I miss being a young, angry, thin kid who didn't know enough about the world to take everything seriously, who wasn't mature enough to be jaded and bitter, and who could look forward to the end of each week because something as simple as a mall could serve as a stage for excitement, relief, and unexpected experiences.

It's ironic that I used to be a mallrat, religiously going to the one closest to me every single weekend (and sometimes throughout the week) for several years, considering I can no longer stand being in one for more than a couple of minutes or however long it takes me to accomplish whatever my purpose is. I guess it's just another way I've grown up over the years, but it seems like it is indicative of so much more. The mall--not just "my" mall, but the concept of a mall, even--is both like a monument to my past and a church of everything I now hate about this world. It's a strange feeling when you're growing up and have to see things transform, especially since the things that do change keep their original form: ex-girlfriends who look just as beautiful and innocent as you once knew they were on the outside are strangers on the inside who now embody everything about people you try to avoid; that Brand New album that was once a soundtrack to some of the most important things of your teenage life is now just a lifeless, albeit catchy, series of decent songs with good lyrics that don't even really evoke many memories; certain words and phrases prompt old nu-metal songs that get stuck in your head, but you can't stand those songs anymore; streets you used to take all the time to and from school or from home to your old friends' are just backgrounds to drives you don't even want to take; places like the mall smell and look like the same place you'd escape from home to and flirt with girls and buy CDs at, but it's now just a suffocating tomb of products you're offended by or disinterested in and girls who only look at you if they're pointing and laughing or if you almost walk into them. Same outsides, different insides; physical symbols of joy, but warehouses of things that make you sick.

I miss being that boy. I miss the men and women who I used to know as boys and girls. I miss all being brought together under the high ceilings, disorienting lights, and the blinking logos of a single mall. I miss how the mall meant going somewhere and having fun even though you had little to no money to do so. I miss how sitting at the same table for hours in a loud, packed food court, fingerboarding and drinking free refills of soda was enough to feel better about Sunday through Thursday; how monotonous and life-sucking school was and how terrorized home life left you. I miss being in an environment and state of mind where talking to new people was exciting instead of scary and friends could be made overnight and last for months or years afterwards. I miss having a friends who had friends who could then become my friends, instead of friends whose only friend is me. I miss being at an age where my peers mingled on weekends over soda, pizza, arcade games, and shitty rap metal instead of dimly lit bars, alcohol, weed, video games about shooting people, and fascist fashion policing. I miss when eye contact with a cute girl from across the food court opened doors of possibilities; where you flirted over AOL Instant Messenger and they flirted back and crushes were formed instantly and made you dizzy with the best type of confusion and nervousness you'd ever experience; where the worst case scenario was an exciting and lusty relationship that lasted only a few weeks and where you could still be friends afterwards; where promiscuity was still cool, standards were lower, and pregnancy and marriage were gross things we'd never succumb to. I miss walking into that building and knowing everyone's name (or at least all of them knowing mine) and exchanging hug after hug. I miss being young enough to take stupid things way too seriously and serious things way too lightly. I miss not knowing exactly where I'd be going once the mall closed up at 9 and people started getting picked up by their parents; what friend's house I'd sleep over at with how many people; what would happen as we walked the streets beyond curfew and who would sleep next to who. I miss when picking on people was all in jest and not "shit-talk" that could lead to a stupid fight. I miss morality that was fickle at best and ignorance that cleared the way for getting through a social situation without getting pissed off.

Some of the best moments of my youth started at the mall and usually ended with it, too. The mall to me and my friends was what bars are to my generation today. It was what our escape from high school was before everyone my age decided that school was so great that paying for and living at it was a good idea. Relationships that were short and sweet and dramatic and awesome began at the mall, continued with <3s at the bottom of your AIM away message, solidified with hand-holding and dry-humping, were consummated with relaxed and playful sex (if you were lucky), and ended at the same mall you met before they went on to date one of your friends. You could still be friends after and you might even hook up again in the future. The mistakes we made would make us cry, but the mistakes my peers make nowadays can kill them. Love was free and we were all more or less equals no matter where we lived, how well we were doing in school, or what ridiculous clothes we were wearing to try and stand out. Now I have to worry about meeting people on OKCupid because I don't have a bachelor's degree and don't have a steady job that I hate; I don't wear the right clothes and am not the right shape. Now, everyone is ready to get married and have a baby with the first person who dates them for more than six months because they need to complete that mission before their game is over. There are people who still live with their parents, sure, and there are even people I knew from the days of the mall who act exactly the same even without the constant loitering, but they're dead inside and their interests do not stray from typical consumerism and their form of flirting and courting begins and ends at how intoxicated they can get their next victim.

I went to a mall today. I've gone to malls here and there, but only to go to a movie or to go in and out with a specific goal. Even in those cases, it's very rare I enter them because I don't purchase things and I hate almost all mainstream film. I certainly don't ever hang out at them. Maybe it's because they're like haunted houses to me where ghosts of my previous self lives within the generations that have taken the place of me and my old friends; their oblivious, blissful eyes, horny smiles, and beautifully masked social anxieties. They get the pleasure of being loiterers while the rest of us are now just customers. Maybe it's just because there's nothing there for me anymore. Maybe this world doesn't have anything else to offer me at all, even. When I walk into a mall now, like today, all I can really think about is where I can actually eat. Nothing else there interests me. I don't want to see any of the new shitty movies Hollywood has puked onto the big screen for us in 3-d, I have no interest in clothing, I can't eat most of their food, and I certainly am not going to meet any girls who will find me attractive enough to want to hear speak. The younger generation is more attractive at younger ages as I get older and uglier. They are granted more and more frivolous luxuries even if they're as poor as I was at that age. They have easier ways to listen to music, invent slang, talk shit, flirt, and jerk off to porn; most of the time, they can do all of those things with a single device that fits into the palm of their hand. Maybe my peers are still as easygoing and careless as I remember them and I'm the one who's changed for the worst into this bitter, perverted old man.

Anyway, Matt's computer needed to be looked at, so I joined him on the ride to Crossgates so he could talk to the Geek Squad at Best Buy. I just wanted to get out of the house and the promise of a Streamliner burger at Johnny Rockets was the only thing I could think of. Like I said, food is the only possibility of enjoyment at the mall for me now. He waited in line for over a half hour while I babysat Auntie Anne's as they prepared our cinnamon pretzels. Of course, by the time he brought his laptop up, it was back to working fine. So we went to Johnny Rockets for dinner. I don't think I'm agoraphobic, but the clash of attractive girls of every age, race, and size mixed with the sickening glare of consumerism really makes me panic. It wasn't long before I just felt really old, really ugly, and really alone. I watched younger groups of friends clink shakes in a toast. It made me wish I had that camaraderie with more than two people. A song came on from the '50s because it was Johnny Rockets and a young couple got up and started slow dancing. It made me wish I had anything close to a romantic relationship with anyone. Matt and I sat there together and whined while stuffing our faces with burgers that had two patties on them and deciding to split a second plate of fries. We eat when we're sad because food is the only pleasure there is that we can actually access on a whim. I got really sick as we left and just wanted to get out of there.

Maybe this is a funny story. Maybe it's just gross and embarrassing. I don't know...
An old woman with a clipboard stopped us and asked if we had time to partake in a survey. As much as I wanted out of the mall, I might have wanted even less to return home, so I asked her what it was about. She said, "Well, we have two: ice cream or soda." We were hooked at the sound of "soda", obviously. It was for Mountain Dew and I lied and said I'd drank it in the last week so I could participate. She asked me some personal information and then brought me into a little hole in the wall where I was seated in a cubicle in front of a computer. They brought me a tray with one small cup of water and a little pack of saltines to clear my palate and a clear cup of bright yellow soda they said was a Mountain Few beverage. I had to drink at least half of it, the survey on the screen said. I took a little sip and instantly felt sick. The soda tasted great; so much so that I'm pretty sure it wasn't actually Mountain Dew (I don't really like Mountain Dew). But I was really fucking full. I chugged a little more of it down to get just past the half marker. I clicked my answers to the questions, which were all asking me to rate different qualities of the drink, like flavor, odor, and even "chuggability". Another tray was brought to me with another bright yellow soda, a small cup of water, and another pack of saltines. I took two little sips of the soda and it again tasted too good to be Mountain Dew. Then I felt a strong grumbling in my gut. The walls of my mouth instantly began to over-salivate and I could feel my stomachache in my chest. I never puke, and have only puked once since 2004, but I knew it when it was coming. I was about to vomit. I grabbed my cup of water, which at that point was half-empty, and puked right into it. I said, "Excuse me," and the employee on the other side of the cubicle wall said, "No problem. It's that time of year!" I puked again into the cup. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and long, thick strings of phlegm bridged between my lips and wrist. It was so gross. I let out one last intense belch of vomit into the cup, filling it perfectly to the brim with brown sludge and chunks of the burger I'd just finished. I politely asked over the wall for some napkins and then proceeded to drink some more soda so I could finish the survey. The man walked back in and had to look down at the tray, which now had a cup very obviously filled with puke. He calmly said, "I'll get you a new cup of water." I got two more smaller cups of soda to try, one of which I'm pretty sure was diet, finished the survey, and got paid $5 in cash. It was not my proudest moment, but I doubt that the man who worked there and had to take away my cup of puke thought his life would be where it is today when he was my age. When I walked out, three young girls were pointing and giggling at Matt while he sat at a bench and looked sad. I told him what happened and I can only conclude that I... overdosed on soda?

Tomorrow's Friday, which used to be the mall day for us. Fridays will always make me feel extra bad about not doing anything with the night. There is no excitement to look forward to, I will not meet anyone new or special, and I know exactly how my night will end. Because part of me died with the mall. Now all I can get out of one is puking into a cup while Matt gets laughed at for being ugly by girls half his age. I hope one day I will find a new sanctuary, where people are excited by how different I am instead of repelled by it and where I can feel safe from how treacherous the rest of the week is. Unfortunately, now that I am 25 and I do not drink, do not go to school, do not work, and am not part of any superficial "scene" anywhere, I don't know if I'll ever find such a place. If the old me died in a mall, I want to find an even better resting place for this me that I am today...

870 miles.

The entire week preceding Chicago Zine Fest was a busy one. I almost felt like I had a real job the way I was stressed and constantly getting possessed by tedious work. I was up late every night, trying to fight off the constant urges to procrastinate, while cutting, folding, and stapling thousands of pieces of paper. I had gone to Staples two days in under two weeks to make twenty to thirty copies of zines that were selling online quicker than was convenient considering I needed those copies for the zine fest. I was also trying to finish up the new zine about vegan pizza Kara and I were working on, but eventually accepted that there was no way to put it together in time and put together all these other old zines. It was nice to feel important, though. Zines were selling like crazy on my Etsy shop, I had just finished my newest release and was/am very proud of it, I was about to finish up a new collaboration with Kara, and I had successfully finished preparing piles of zines to sell in Chicago. Perhaps the workload was a healthy rarity. It certainly distracted me from a lot of shit and made me feel like I existed for a little while.

We had at least fifteen hours ahead of us on Thursday, but we knew Matt could do it. It was just a little past noon when we piled into his car with our giant suitcase of wares for the festival, the remaining pack of Pepsi cans, and some snack foods. For the first hour or two, we mostly just talked while The Front Bottoms played quietly underneath us. Split between three of us (I'd told Matt he wouldn't have to pay any gas if he took us), gas came to only $66, which was so much cheaper than if we took a train like we did last year. Our first stop was in Syracuse, a city that will always stand out in my memories because it was the first place I'd ever traveled to. We went for lunch (or whatever you wanna call a meal between 2 and 3) at Strong Hearts, one of the greatest all-vegan restaurants in the country. First thing we noticed was the giant sign hanging above the counter with a badly drawn, frowny panda: "This is the world's saddest panda... because we are all out of milkshakes." I'd been hyping up their milkshakes for days to everyone. They themselves boast a year-round menu of forty-four flavors of vegan milkshakes. Of course, on the day we go there, they're miraculously out. Matt and I were totally bummed. To make up for it, I ordered a shamelessly ridiculous amount of delicious food. Thankfully, just as the sun set, we were winding through the local roads of Ithaca and suddenly passed by Purity, an ice cream place that carries tons of vegan options, including Bostons, which are gigantic milkshakes with a scoop of ice cream on top. I yelled a lot and Matt turned right around. The girls weren't as enthused by the whole thing, but Matt and I enjoyed making ourselves sick with what is quite possibly the best vegan ice cream there is. The trip through western-most New York state continued, pregnant with ice cream babies and unsure of when we'd finally get back on an actual interstate. A few hours in, we got caught driving in long, dark roads covered in ice and sleet and I decided to trade seats with Kara and sleep in the back while they played "20 Questions" without the question limitation. I had started worrying that Matt and Kara were flirting because I'm a crazy idiot.

There were several stops throughout the night for gas, more snacks, and sodas. We stopped at a truck stop and it made me so lovesick, thinking about all the days and nights Kara and I had stayed at them. Somewhere between Toledo and Indiana, Matt finally decided to pull over at a rest area and take a power nap. I had trouble falling back asleep, so I put Owen on in my headphones. Tia had long-since mastered the art of sleeping in the back of Matt's car and Kara never really went to sleep that night. Two or so hours later, the sun was rising and Matt was getting back on the road, but not after bringing all of us French toast sticks in from the Burger King. I groggily ate mine with my headphones still playing Owen's lengthy discography on shuffle and kept sleeping for a few more hours.


Tia scratching Matt's beard for him while he drives.


Tia and I sleeping in the back.

It was almost 11 when I woke up, just as we were driving up the familiar streets of the suburbs of Chicago we'd once again be staying in. We parked outside of Kate's house just as a Peapod truck was pulling up to deliver groceries for us. Kate was out and wouldn't be home for a little while. All she asked was that we take out the trash and bring in the groceries. In the meantime, most of us just crashed. I fell right onto the couch and enjoyed the unique feeling of what it's like being in a room with room for me. Tia went to sleep upstairs in one of the kids' beds and Matt went down to the incredibly spacious basement to sleep on the soft and lumpy couch. I'm not sure what Kara did while the rest of us passed out. I woke up when Kate showed up and began shoveling the front, which was covered in some leftover snow from a storm we'd thankfully missed on our way there. She had just gotten there the night before, having driven all by herself all the way from New Jersey. She was relocating without her kids so they could finish school in New York while she prepared to divorce her evil cheating banker husband. She had come with more groceries, including a dozen boxes of Upton's seitan. She wasn't done there, though. She then began to prepare parsnips and lentil curry for us all, all while not missing a beat with her usual sarcasm, ruthless wit, and loud, operatic laugh.

When everyone was finally awake, we all hung around and Matt and Tia became acquainted with Kate. Kate made a lot of candid comments about her current situation regarding her husband's infidelity and overall shittiness, but still tried to laugh about it while professing her unbearable loneliness. She kept inviting us to all stay for as long as we wanted and even though I'd already told her on Facebook we'd only be there for the weekend, she started telling me and Kara that she would be leaving keys with us on Tuesday. She seemed genuinely disappointed when I reminder her we'd be leaving by Sunday. I felt so bad for her and the mix of her sadness with her strength in the face of it all made her so incredibly attractive to me. Our first order of business was to head out and get dinner at the notorious Chicago Diner. Kara and I love the place and we knew Tia and Matt absolutely needed to try it. Traffic in Chicago sucked as always and Matt, a driver like any other, of course exaggerated its uniqueness as if it being packed on the interstate outside of a large major city was somehow unusual. Tia, Matt, and I got the same thing: the giant bbq bacun seitan cheeseburger and a side of buffalo seitan with mashed potatoes and gravy. Kara got grilled cheese and that was it! Matt and I made sure to get shakes, too. You can never get too many shakes while traveling. The food was so good and I ate until it hurt. Kara kept picking on me and being short-tempered over everything I said, so I started to distance myself from her until I reached a fleeting boiling point. I am constantly walking on eggshells around her and Tia. When we got back to the house, Kate was preparing to go to a party and dressed up really nice. I flirted with her before and after.

We had to get up really early the next morning for the zine fest. We ate some parsnips and lentils and then got going. We made it there more or less on time and found decently cheap parking right away. This year, we were on the first floor, which we thought was a good thing because we'd get the bulk of the traffic coming in. We totally did, but the downfall was that there was far less space for tablers on the first floor. By the time Kara and I got our seats behind our half-table, we had realized the tabler next to us, Rosy, who'd tabled next to us last year, had her friend Gina joining her. So we each had half a table and two seats each. When everyone showed up, Kara and I were literally elbow to elbow with those seated next to us and back to back with the row of tables behind us. It was very uncomfortable. We set up our table and concluded that we definitely need a full table next year to accommodate how much material we actually have. I have six zines of my own, one made with Kara, one with Tia, Tia's solo zine, Jessica's solo zine, Pigeon Life winter hats, Tia's pile of stickers, a pile of pigeon stickers I made, and then Kara's nine zines and her homemade envelopes. Tia and Matt scurried off to do whatever and our first hour or two was pretty devastating. It was like we were invisible to everyone walking by. Things eventually picked up, though. I always freak out for the first couple of hours. It was open to the public from 11 to 6 and I mostly stayed at the table. I talked to a lot of people and sold a lot of zines. "Fast Food Vegan" did particularly well, drawing in handfuls of vegans who kept coming back with their vegan friends. It was cool. One of them was really cute and Kara said she thought she was flirting with me. She had red hair, was wearing a RVIVR shirt, had beautiful tattoos of a dog and a cow, the word "vegan" down her finger, and a straightedge patch. She was nice to talk to and she claimed she'd e-mail me to tell me where to find vegan sour cream and onion chips. She made zines, too, and I think she might have been my official zinester crush of the day. Then again, there was also the cute redhead who was as obsessed with pigeons as I was. She had a pigeon tattoo and a handmade pigeon sweater her friend had made for her. She was the only person to buy a pigeon hat and was so overwhelmingly excited as we briefly bonded over our love of them together.

Kara was gone for a while. She went to a ninety-minute workshop on book binding that she was excited about and then went on her journey to browse all the tables on the first and eighth floor. I liked the time alone, to my own surprise, and spent a lot of it making sale after sale and talking at length with many people who would wind up not even buying anything. When Kara came back, I had about one hour to check everything out before the event ended. I submitted three zines to Pioneer Press; hopefully, they'll accept me and want me in their glorious catalog. A guy from Phoenix ran up to me and excitedly asked, "Are you dave gunn?" He told me his friend had sent him "Pigeon Life" and "Fast Food Vegan" and that he loved them both. Apparently, he was toying with the idea of making a how-to hitchhiking guide until he discovered I'd already made one. We discussed hitchhiking techniques for a bit. I also finally met Isabelle Rotman, a comic zinester who mostly does stuff on animal mating habits. She was really pretty in real life and perky. I bought a bunch of things and found out that someone else who loved "Fast Food Vegan" was actually someone whose work I already was aware of, Attack of the Zombie Soy Bot. The zine world is even smaller than the real world. On the eighth floor, I was running out of time, but still managed to allow myself to get lost in conversations and purchases. I was having so much fun, even though the festival was less actual zines and more comics and boring art collections. It was a rare instance in which I felt like I belonged to something bigger than myself. It was still a bit alienating being around some of the most beautiful and talented people I've ever seen, and even more discomforting being around rich kids who have it easier when putting together a project, but I still felt pretty good by the end of the day.

We made over $150 combined. Matt read a few zines himself and mingled to the best of his awkward abilities. Tia talked to a ton of people and did a bunch of trades of her zine and stickers with people. Somehow, our table seems to be the only table at the entire festival that no one took a picture of.




This is the cute girl who loved pigeons!


Someone took a picture of Matt while he was reading.


The girl on the right is Marisa and she was probably my zine crush (it's hard to say when there were lady zinelebrities like Deafula and Kate Larson there, but...). She made awesome perzines called "Warning Signs" that I bought.

After the zine fest, we stopped by Quimby's so Kara could consign with them and I could stock them back up on copies they'd sold out of earlier that week. It was cool. The guy working there, Neil, knew exactly who I was, where I was from, and even apologized for potentially coming off as rude in the last e-mail he'd sent me. That little bookstore has helped get my zines out there more than they already were and the employees are some of the nicest, easiest to work with people I've ever encountered. They're so personable. At the zine fest, a girl had bought some copies of "Discomfort" because she already had "Pigeon Life" and "Fast Food Vegan" from Quimby's! I bought a cute little zine about bees and then we headed off to a place suggested to me by a group of local vegans called Quesadilla, which they told me served authentic Mexican food for cheap and was 90% vegan/100% vegetarian. After Matt painstakingly tried to parallel park for ten minutes, we walked into the tiny place and waited around for a table to become available. It was small and packed to capacity, but the menu was really impressive. They had Mexican food I'd never even heard of and everything could be veganized. They took a long time to service us, but we got complimentary chips and dip. I got a torta with avocado and three different kinds of meat on it, a chorizo quesadilla, and a tamale that was actually quite gross. Everything else was huge, loaded, and delicous. Kara and Matt got nachos that were huge. The only thing that wound up sucking was our bill. It was all way under $20 despite the amount of food we got, but they charged us extra for vegan cheese without mentioning in person or even anywhere on their menu that they do that sorta thing.

When we got back to Kate's, Matt was surprisingly ready to hit the road and start heading home. I talked him out of it, though. He went in and went straight to sleep. I ate some of the vegan chili Kate had made for us and stayed up with Tia. A girl had traded me two copies of her old zine "I Was a Teenage Scumfuck" for "Pigeon Life". I read it and it was sickening. Alcoholism, drug use, rich kid delusions of poverty and DIY, exploiting the kindness of strangers, carrying around and subsequently losing puppies... it was everything I hated about traveler kids. Because clocks were set ahead one hour and we would lose an hour on our way back to New York anyway, we had to leave at 2am, Chicago-time. It was raining by that point, which only made the idea of a fifteen-hour ride even more grim. Matt and I had a goal of getting back to the 518 in time to see The Wonder Years perform at Northern Lights the next night. The rain made the inside of the car muggy and the windows blinding, but we survived and it eventually died down as we entered Indiana. I slept a lot while Kara took over the passenger seat. Surprisingly, Matt made it all the way home by 8pm that night without any extra sleep. We rushed to the concert venue and got there just as Soupy was hitting the stage with The Wonder Years. We walked in and I pushed straight to the front-center in under two minutes to jump around and sing along.

The weekend was perfect and everyone had a great time. Writing zines is one of the greatest decisions I've ever made. I have a bunch of stuff at home to read now and I'm going to try and start reaching out to the people I read to let them know they're being read. I know how good it makes me feel when people do that, so I might as well go out of my way to make others feel good. Ya know, unless they've written a zine like "I Was a Teenage Scumfuck".


A nice sunset picture Kara took on our way back home.



This big-titted beaver woman is a real small chain of gas stations and truck stops throughout rural New York state. We stopped at one and couldn't believe our eyes.

I finally finished my newest perzine; the first thing I've successfully created and released since I lost all motivation to do anything I loved about a year ago after Kara dumped me. I think it's pretty awesome and I'm proud of it. It's all about the Schenectady police department and my many experiences with them, with short critiques of the institution of the police here in America around it. There are a lot of words in it, of course. You can order it here for $2.

I finished it after months of collecting, editing, reworking old writing, and researching my local police department's many cases of corruption, abuse of power, violence, and racism and a couple weeks of construction. Even though I had plans to leave on Friday with Matt for the New Found Glory "Sticks and Stones" ten-year anniversary show in Atlantic City, NJ, I didn't put the thing down until I did everything that I could to it. I wound up getting no more than four hours of sleep before waking up and having to get ready to head out in the car.

We brought the last six cans of Pepsi we had and each had a bag of Boca nuggets. The weather was acceptable and the ride was nice and smooth until we got to New York City. We stopped there to each get a dozen doughnuts at Dun-Wells. They had PB&J doughnuts, something I'd never seen or even imagined before. It took over five hours to get to Atlantic City. The state of no left turns makes it so any missed stop or on-ramp can potentially fuck you over for several miles at a time. The city was different than what I'm used to seeing when entering an area for the first time, and it wasn't just because of the many closed gas stations and other small businesses or the property damages from being ravaged by the hurricane that were still in the process of being reconstructed. The first thing I noticed was the forest of giant wind turbines collecting wind energy alongside the city skyscrapers. I'd never seen wind power being collected so close to an actual town or city before. The sky was grey and blurry and I kept mistaking a big, luminous, purple crystal ball atop one of the buildings for the moon. The Trump Taj Mahal stood tall, ugly, and proud and emitted thick, ominous smoke from various outlets. The roads and sidewalks of the poorer neighborhoods by the projects were surprisingly paved smoothly. It's so easy to forget sometimes that the northeast has beaches or is by any coastal waters in the first place.

We were both hungry for a dinner, so we went to a place called Veggie Pizza. It was one of only two options that came up when I Googled vegan food in the area and pizza sounded way more promising than Indian food or whatever. It was a small but modestly spacious place that looked pretty new. They had a food truck outside that boasted their specialty in "regular, vegan, and vegetarian". I can't lie, I was offended at the use of "regular" to broadly describe animal products. At first, we browsed the menu that hung over the counter where a beautiful woman was working the register. She eventually told us it was very outdated. On the newer, glossy menus we had in our hands, we were devastated to find out that vegan food was a last priority here, despite the place's name and how it was explained online. It was a small menu, but had lots of yummy sounding options. Unfortunately, vegan pizzas only came in one size: 14". A good size, but still offensive that vegan pizza was being intentionally limited to the customers. We ordered one chicken florentine pizza to split and each got an order of spicy buffalo wings, a portion of three drumsticks priced at an unreasonable $10. The woman explained to us, "Yeah, it's more expensive because it's vegan and soy." These companies don't understand that there is a market for vegan food and that they only create a self-fulfilling prophecy when they automatically raise prices for vegan options far above the rest of the food. When the prices are that ridiculous, vegans are less likely to go out and buy it, which results in it seeming like the vegan demographic doesn't exist.

We kept looking at the menu. Vegan "entrees" were a single price of $23 and a burger priced at $6 (without fries or any side, mind you) went up an extra $4 if you got it with a salad. The woman came out and told us the sauce that is advertised as coming with the vegan wings contained dairy, which made no sense since it was advertised under the vegan menu. When our pizza came out, we both looked down at it in disbelief. The Daiya was used so sparingly that you could probably have counted the individual pieces of cheese. The pizza was pretty naked anyway because there was no sauce on it. She asked if we wanted a side of marinara to dip it in and I told her we had no idea it didn't come with sauce on it. "Well, the non-vegan chicken florentine comes white, so the vegan one does, too." But why the fuck would we know that when we obviously aren't looking at the non-vegan section of the menu? Nowhere on the menu even mentioned an addition or lack of sauce for each option. The chicken pieces, spinach, and tomato were even more sparing and the sauce tasted like tomato soup. All things considered, the pizza's crust was perfect and did taste good, but was still a mockery of everything vegan pizza is capable of being. We were pretty mad at this place.

Next, we had to find parking in a city riddled with large casinos and flashy LED advertisement screens. We saw a parking garage by the boardwalk, but assumed parking would cost a lot, so we kept driving until a sign stopped us. We gave in and it was thankfully only $5. The House of Blues was pretty disgusting and I instantly felt uncomfortable being there. It was really big and part of a larger thing called the "Showboat", so the first things we saw were tables upon tables of assholes gambling and yuppies paying for overpriced drinks and fast food. We guessed what window to go to with our tickets and stood amongst beautiful girls and tiny boys in socked winter hats. Off to the side was a small pack of macho hardcore guys in obnoxious black clothing adorned in FSU patches and the number 666. It reminded me that something as innocent as pop-punk had been long-since tainted by the hardcore scene. We had to take the escalator upstairs. I looked around me at the slot machines and couldn't stop cringing. When we got into the venue, we went straight the stage. It was pretty packed and covered in Red Bull advertising. The stage was high and the kids around us were either really young or in their mid- to late-twenties like me and Matt. I looked around at all the pretty girls and we slowly moved up every chance we got. Standing around until my heels hurt under my own bored weight sucked, especially since the house music was evenly split between repetitive reggae at The Ramones. The first band, The Scandals, were really fucking boring. Off to the side of the stage, I could see FSU hanging out. The second band, Man Overboard, were obnoxiously corny and boring and played three different songs where they mentioned smoking pot. They tried so hard and the crowd ate it up. Even FSU, as tough looking as they were, sung along happily to their songs about being "awkward" and missing ex-girlfriend. The entire place was choked with the strong smell of a freshly lit joint of weed. I gagged on it and tried not to sneeze.

The crowd became rough with the first note played by The Scandals. One of the kids behind us immediately shoved Matt with all of his might and started stomping around with his buddies. By the third song, I'd already been hit in the head just above my temple by some sharp human bone when a kid attempted to crowd-surf. A bump immediately swelled and I wanted to leave. The Menzingers weren't as popular, so the crowd thankfully calmed down during them. Seeing them live for the first time sealed the deal on how in love with their music I have recently become. They kept it real and didn't rely on the usual stage banter. They made a joke about there suspiciously being Red Bull on the stage and used it as a segue into a song they said was about about consumer capitalism. They were too punk for this show. A really drunk and excited girl jumped on and shoved everyone while singing along. New Found Glory took forever to start. A large man squeezed his way past us and everyone else toward the front-center of the crowd, saying he "just had to get a inhaler to his cousin". Of course, I said, "I've been there," and let him through, only to watch him never give an inhaler to anyone and just stay nice and comfortable in his new place of the crowd. I looked at him, annoyed that he took advantage of everyone's kindness, and noticed he was wearing a pair of fingerless Juggalo Hatchetman gloves. No wonder.

As soon as New Found Glory started, the crowd erupted into a whole new amplified level of violent and inconsiderate. I try to be understanding because I was young once too and I know that people should be energetic and having fun while seeing one of their favorite bands perform live. But once you cross the line where you begin to directly interfere in someone else's ability to have safe fun, you've fucked up and there's just no excuse. I always seem to forget why I hate going to shows like this so much until I'm at one. I tried to throw my fist in the air and sing along, but it was only seconds before it wasn't physically possible. I was squished in the crowd along with anyone else who wasn't crowd-surfing. By the time the third song, "Sonny", one of the songs I was most excited to hear, the crowd-surfing was like an assembly line and I no longer could even raise my arms because I was too busy desperately trying to protect my head from any more concussions. I watched as the big, brawny security guards manhandled everyone, including small, 95-pound girls. By the fifth song, I was out of it. Fist-fights were breaking out behind me every couple of minutes and I decided to give up on being a member of the crowd. I moved off to the right side, hoping for some breathing room and less possibility of injury. And I found it, which was nice for a song or two. But after seeing three individual fist-fights break out between macho guys who had forgotten how to have fun at shows even worse than I had, I started to get really miserable. Everyone there was being so inconsiderate and I was getting bummed watching everyone hurt each other. Everyone wanted to be reckless and fuck with everyone else's experience in exchange for their own, but flipped out if someone returned the favor. It was ridiculous and I hated my generation so much in that moment. I had to watch security guards put a man in a headlock and drag him out like a criminal and even lift and carry a tiny blonde girl no older than 18 and weighing no more than 95 pounds as if she were capable of anything more than screeching. I had taken my medication, so I was surprised at how deeply I was effected by all of this. Then I was just bummed that I was bummed, disappointed in myself for apparently being unable to enjoy myself.

I stood even farther away from the crowd and watched from far away in the back before escaping to the bar and buying a soda. I leaned against it with a bad headache and watched two Jersey Shore bros drunkenly singing along to every song, being incredibly affectionate with one another. I looked around and watched three ridiculously attractive couples making out with each other furiously while their hands explored one another. I was so jealous of them. I couldn't remember the last time I kissed someone that passionately. Before they played the last track of "Sticks and Stones", one of my favorite songs by them, Jordan's cousin was invited up on stage. He dragged his girlfriend with him and proceeded to propose to her in front of everyone. She said yes. I hate marriage, but it was really cute. The lyrics to that song, "The Story So Far", make me think of Kara and are extremely romantic. Neither of them will probably ever forget that night. I forgot my phone at home, so I couldn't text for company and just leaned against the bar some more, trying not to stare at people fucking each other with their eyes and waiting for New Found Glory to finish their encore set. I asked for another soda and waitress told me not to worry about paying for it. I think she felt sorry for me.

I was happy I had gotten out of the house (and state) for a day, I was. But I think this is the last time I go to a show like this. I want to enjoy the live music instead of having to watch my own back and worry about a drunk girl spilling her cup of beer on me or a grown man's entire weight being thrown into my skull. I shouldn't have to worry about protecting myself and getting caught in the crossfire of a fist-fight while I'm listening to songs by a pop-punk band singing about unrequited love that I listened to when I was fourteen.

The ride back home took forever. It was raining on and off and we were both exhausted. We listened and sang along to a lot of music as the GPS on his phone took us through one funny-named township after another on route 9. One of them was called Cheesequake. We stopped at a Burger King by New York City for fries and soda and I fell asleep shortly after. Matt took a break that night and we slept for an hour or so in a rest stop parking lot before he got back on the road. We didn't get home until 8 in the morning.

I was in the 9th grade when the "Sticks and Stones" album came out. I had just lost my virginity and had a lot of friends. I was a mallrat and I hated my life for the most part. These songs that meant so much to me back then being played over a total shift in consciousness and a drastically different me was very strange. A lot of things change for the worse and some things, like music, can't be erased like the memories associated with them can be. I hope I haven't completely forgotten how to have fun. I have a lot of plans next month, so I guess we'll see.