letters to Rachel

This is a special delicate situation that we're in. There's all these kids trying to be so scene and getting lost hazardously about it. They haven't even got a taste of the smoke. Once you inhale, you want to get rid of it.

It's like money. If you make it you want to give it away. I guess this doesn't apply so well. The important thing is that they're trying something, and it's quite irreverent of them but they'll never quite make it.

Gay boys hanging out with straight hot girls. Yeah, I really don't get that shit, hey. It's such an angelical hypotetical situation. Such prudes. They just want to stare at each other and be admired. It's retarded. It's cool. Hey, mate, it's robotic.

Wake up.

It's funny though because the slight signs of fame appear. And it's funny because you're my main correspondent, and they adore you because you're game enough. It's hilarious. You're too smart for them and I guess I can understand why you had a break from it and I can see how they would only discuss fashion and I can see that, well, their insecurities would really throw you back.

"Hang out with those that are similar; don't hang out with people that put you down; store your shoes away from the rain," all advices from a sole loyal mother. So she would have told you, or your sister would have told you, and if they didn't you probably started realizing by yourself, that, well, some people put you down and it gets in the way of sunshine.

And all of a sudden you meet these amazing shiny brights, and you want to understand how they glow a house single handedly, and WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY GET THEIR JEANS, and so on, and you just want to chase comets for a while. And that shit gets stupid too because there are no such things.

At a close-up lights can get opaque, illusions created by your favourably impressed brain. And then you forget.

And then you start thinking about brightness, and what is the essence of attraction, and why the fuck do you look back at scholar times. And then excellence becomes a matter of importance. Talents unimaginable and foray lifestyles, change of haircuts and suburbs, and warmth of self realizes itself. And with comfort comes an honest sheen, a glow to the forehead, an approach that gets people thinking.

This is where the wisemen have come and nested. The rest slip into a highly deceiveable persona. They try on some parts and fit some music around their hips - to see if the zip will close. Mostly it's their Grandmothers clothes and they wouldn't fit anyone anyway unless they were an 85kg, seventy year-old woman. Anyway, they keep slipping into confusion. They go gender crazy. They cut their hairs when all they had to do was move out in the first place, or get a nice tatoo from Jeff, my buff next door neighbour.

Retarded. Munted. Horrid. Placid. Epic. All big words that remind me of pretentia. Exquisite taste, they have, in the superficial. But ask who Mark Brown is and they wouldn't have a clue. Lady Gaga, Maddonna; fuck man, they didn't create very much of my experience. But that's another case.

Subsidizing off a big generation of posers, these kids are slightly in for a surprise, but I won't be mean, because they have teeth sharper than bare blades.