“Wow. Miley Cyrus covers Nirvana. Not the best way to start my day.” – David McCrindle, Twitter

I’m the brunette one. Or the blonde one, I’m not sure. I’m the one in front, up there strutting around on that thrust platform stage for all the kids crying, crying, crying for something that I’m not and will never be. Sometimes I want to escape into the blackness, and never emerge. (JK. LOL!)

I like smoking pot and wearing makeup and spending all morning making my hair look ratty. I go to vintage shops in dark sunglasses, trying to find something that will make me appear other than I am. I crawl through life, alone, alienated, caffeinated. Red Bull. Sugarfree.

My dad has a gun. He also has a chip on his shoulder, and I hate it. He won’t let me be who I want to be—out on the streets with the howling cats and the rain dogs and the people who listen to the Pixies while they’re having butt sex. I tried to give a guy a blow job once, and it was awkward. I went home and dragged a plastic knife across my thigh. It left a long red scratch.

I’m finally writing about me. I have so many problems. So do other people, I know. We all have problems. Bieber’s got problems. Duff’s got problems. Even the Olsens have problems. Mary-Kate’s boyfriend killed himself. I could kill myself. Theoretically. God, I’m so fucked up.

– Jay Gabler