Why did I always feel like I needed to be someone better? Why did the people I wasted time with—every teacher I’d ever had, the doctors, the lawyers, the meds—all want me to be someone I wasn’t? Why couldn’t I just be? It didn’t seem to bother Charlie. I was who I was, and that was good enough for her. I wanted to go back to when I was a kid. Or at least go back to a time when shit wasn’t so complicated. I didn’t need medication then—why do I need it now? I was a free spirit, had a lot of energy, and told the truth. If I did that as an adult I’d be a fucking nutjob. If we were smart, then we were know-it-alls; if we were polite, then we were pussies; if we were educated, then we were pompous. If we spoke candidly, we were assholes. If we were just in it for the pussy, we were dicks. And if I was a free spirit, I was psycho. The music I listened to made me a punk. The clothes I wore made me a slacker.
