305.
Sometimes I've got to remember where I came from. First it was the compulsive obsessions with characters as a child. It was Marty McFly, and all I wanted to do was play guitar and skateboard. Well, it's safe to say that I do that now. Then it was a few others, instead of characters, I romanticized about scenarios. There were the fireflies. There was San Jose City College and oxycontin and cheap coffee and a Jeep with a speedometer that didn't go past 80 miles an hour. There was 19 years of age and raves and calling myself a monster and meaning it and there was living with a girl, not a woman, which destroyed any notion of optimism in love. There was a trashy apartment in San Jose and a trashy apartment in Santa Cruz and mexicans that never met me but I sure as hell met them. There was a bench that almost witnessed my last breath and there were marks on my arms. There was loud, loud noise and cries of frustration and a concrete heaven. There were bad, bad decisions. There was a school on a hill and an Associate's degree. There was La Voz Weekly and Kelsey Lester-Perry, whom is less important to me than I thought at the time and a restroom on the north end of campus that I called my shooting gallery and there were lots of bathroom breaks. Then there was Reno, Nevada. I'm still asking for some of it. There was the Lancaster desert and my Subaru, which is miraculously still alive. There was apartment 13, where I spent some days recording music and other days shooting opana and listening to The Lawrence Arms. Now there's the big white house my cold, cold floor and getting over the morphine I ran out of. And I still remember where I came from. Constantly. The funny thing is that here, in Reno, Nevada, no one knows where I came from, so I can come from anywhere I want. It's liberating. At least that's what I tell myself.