XXXjeremyXXX

We all die in small increments. It's bound to happen, and it always does.

As a kid born in the early 80s, an era clean from all the PlayStations, iPods, & mobile phones that passes as today's version of the Swiss Knife, we were out there on the streets playing whatever there was under the sun up until dusk. We laughed, gashed our knees and elbows, got our shirts smeared with mud after making mud pies--it was the best time for a kid to be born and grow up in.

The 90s was hands down the best time for music. Pavement and The Pixies were getting more popular, college radio was in bloom, grunge was stealing Warrants' Cherry Pie, and punk seemed fresh with Billy Joe Armstrong's version of the lip swagger Sid Vicious prominently fashioned decades ago. Everything seemed to matter, emotions running around, senses heightened.

By this period however, as much as I wanted to ignore, I was naive. I believed in the magic of love, hope, faith and all of those things that would probably get you a high five and half a blow job Rainbow Brite with a pat on the back from Papa Smurf to match. But as soon as I moved to a bigger city in the hopes of claiming what was promised to me as kid, the world started to unravel itself before me, turning against me like a bitch.

No form of college education prepares you for the rape the world will deliver soon after you shake hands with your college diploma...and don't get me started with Oprah. Battling depression by your 20s may seem fashionable from your brand new HD TV and the couch that set you back two months worth of pay--and in this respect, if I knew what I know now, I would have pulled my mom's kitchen knife and chalked up Joey Potter on our kitchen floor.

Maybe someday when I officially have my first newspaper delivered to my front door, and flip through the obituaries, I'd get to see a list of the dreams and fantasies I had when I was younger. But until then, I propose a toast for another broken year. Cheers!