So, let’s figure you’re a creative type.
You know the artsy people you look up to in high school and college? The free spirits with funny-colored hair, unlikely names, and wardrobes that incorporate all the colors of the rainbow and the ostentatious fashion sense of about seven different cultures? The ones who start dancing in public without music, insist on eating and preparing only exotic and unnaturally natural cuisine, and usually play (or try to play) an oud or zither or some similar obscure instrument? The ones who re-filter everything the hippies were into through a dozen cultural effects pedals, thereby making “NEW” art out of other’s ideas and labor? The ones who are multifaceted incompetents, reaching new heights of mediocrity in multiple genres? The ones that just. FEEL. SO. DAMN. MUCH., they’re either self-destructing, weeping, or whipping about and criticizing everyone for not acting rightly or paying enough attention to them? The, as Kerouac rambled, “mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!â€
Those people wear on you like a belt sander when you get older.
Unless you’re one of them, of course.
Fair warning.
