At Seventeen

So you’re a tough guy
Like-it-really-rough guy
Just-can’t-get-enough guy
Chest-always-so-puffed guy
I’m that bad type
Make-your-mama-sad type
Make-your-girlfriend-mad type
Might-seduce-your-dad type
I’m the bad guy, duh

Billie knows what’s up. I think I thought I was this girl when I was seventeen. When I got into punk. When I just wanted to touch greatness. And by greatness I meant someone who played bass in a punk band. But only really tall guys who had their guitar straps extended so their long arms could barely reach the strings. Or, you know, a guitarist. As long as his name was Johnny Greenwood. Oh to be 17 again. I wouldn’t, not for the whole wide world.

Last night I went to the Bowery Ballroom to see Ty Segall on a date. It was…nice. I don’t remember much of what went on on stage because we were those idiots making out like kids in the balcony. You know those kids? I hate those kids. I am those kids. Only now I like the tall, lanky Brit in the audience, who’s smart and cute, instead of the ones on stage.

I’m going back to bed. I’ve got homework and class today. Duh!

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