Because I’m starting to think you enjoy twisting the knife in my heart every chance you get. If too much happiness dares to encroach on my life, does some siren go off up there? Uh-oh, Gray’s too happy right now. We can’t have that. Time to shit all over his life again. Apparently I’m not cut out for happiness. Not my destiny, I guess. Those were the majority of my thoughts as I drove east to New Mexico. The rest of the time I tried to block out my mind with Rage Against the Machine and Ludacris and Limp Bizkit—people that share my current hostility toward life, and beats that are loud enough to keep me awake during the dozing-off points on boring stretches of highway. I filled up my hatchback with the most crucial essentials: baseball glove, stereo, music, guitar, and computer. I packed a few bags of clothes. I thought about stealing Dylan’s photography book from my dad and bringing it with me. Not because I want vivid memories of every moment we had together so I can torture myself with daily reminders.
