So, that was my 18th birthday. Dominated by alien heads, vibrating red ohms, my good friend dimitri and a very cute girl with fishnets and a slinky skirt.
Is this what my parents had in mind for me? There's artline texta on my shoulder, and sunflower seeds in my hair. My upper lip keeps twitching and I should really brush my teeth.
Better turn the bass up for this one.
I've been to the other side of the world for the girl of my dreams, and I've been into the darkest depths of the human psyche and my personal condition. I've been beaten, shot at, set on fire, hugged, sucked, slapped, heart-broken, patronised, praised, spat on, yelled at, whispered to, moaned in the ear of, tortured, dragged out of the house to go get high, placed on a pedastal, questioned, probed, interrogated and loved. I have breathed. I have lived.
I have finished my dress rehearsal. Eighteen years of preperation have gone together to form this bright, crystallising moment. The truth shines like new steel, and it tastes just as bitter.
No more fucking around. No more burning away hours of time for unecessary self-gratification. I've finally got a shot at a decent uni. No more bullshit and deception and mind games and personal gain and pivate interest. There are bigger things at stake here.
There's that impeccable truth I keep coming to. That I keep deluding myself with. That I keep reminding myself of, and testing the constitution of. That whire-hot glowing chunk of confidence that says you-are-the-man-with-the-bulletproof-brain. When I can have had five tabs and some people not even know that I'm tripping. When DMT does nothing any more. When I can feel individual serotonin receptors cracking and puddling like teeny-weeny stars of crystal meth inside my skull. When I can still talk coherently ththrough nang hits. These are golden moments that say to me "You will not have a bad trip. You are not the same as those people. No matter how hard you go, you're not going to break anything inside that tired young skull."
The next time I catch myself thinking that, I'm going to slap myself. Intellectual capcity, mental fortittude and psychological stability. Not to mention raw tolerance of psychoactive substances. These are not a measure of a man's worth. A man'd worth is judged by how he takes these stanchions of logic and drives them home into the scene, how he can figure out not what the doof can do for him, but swhat he can do for the doof.
it doesn't have to even be anything. I'm not saying that you should all go out and start donating to the organisers and bringing bunches of free bannanas for everyone - But you're welcome to if you want. It's not a tangible thing. It's the knowledge and passion of the doof, and the willingness to act and, more importantly, to not act, when the situation calls for it.
Please, whoever's doing that shit, please stop bring your friends who plow through the gate, and who steal the fuel for the jennys. Just don't tell them. Everyone is welcome at the doof, unless your behaviour is making others feel unwelcome.
All that being said, i think I'm done with doofing for a little while. Maybe take a breather for a few weeks and see how I feel. I might just want to get some cash together and skip town for a while - Go on holidays somewhere chilly and Sereana-flavoured. We'll see how the next few weeks pan out, I guess.
So yeah. This is it. Eighteen. Legal and liable, at long last. Culpable for full criminal prosecution and considered responsible for my actions.
One day, skyscrapers will kneel to allow the sun's passage. The hands of a few will hold the very reigns of this world. The day will come when the sky spits heroin and the earth grinds its teeth in frustration. The people will rattle and roll like marbles in a copper cup.