Early twenties? Insecurity, bad choices, saying “yes” to everything, even if you wanted to say “no”. Bad boyfriends, bad salaries. Bad house music. No nostalgia whatsoever!
“The Mist. When my friend told me what happened at the end I laughed so hard. But when I watched it… It was less funny.”
“There was no actual violence shown onscreen and it was so fucked up, proving you don’t need onscreen violence to be disturbing.”
Cool high school boyfriends were always introspective. They were few and far apart, somewhere in that medium between obnoxious jock and pervy nerd.
“Oleander time,” she said. “Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind.”
I became conscious of the fact that I relied on alcohol not only as a social companion, but a personal one.
I didn’t think of it as “crystal meth.” This was just speed — a higher-strength Dexatrim than I could buy at the store.
A perma-baked high school surfer, Spicoli is the archetype American pothead: bumbling yet witty, laid back yet subversive, and largely harmless despite his antics.
Abusing a substance destructively is like riding on a roller coaster without wearing a seat belt. We crave the danger because we want to see how close we can come to death.
Where are the Angry Young Men and Women of our own generation?