Sticky got me thinking about twenty. Namely, what the hell was I up to?
This must have been after the one-night stand. I was certainly with the older woman who had a son. Wild one she was. Cool kid, too. This means that twenty was when I realized it’s not for me, the casual thing. Too unstable. I’ve had to relearn this lesson again since then, but fucking up’s about as necessary as walking. Learn from my mistakes. Tell me so.
Really into video games. I wrote a fuckton of game guides (the earliest onset of any interesting in writing). I spent a hell of a lot of time playing video games. Good ones, bad ones. There were probably many guns involved. 2003. The Internet was a newish thing. Computers were slow as hell. Everything was written in Notepad. No more than 79 characters wide. It’s strange what sticks to your memory.
That must have been when I decided to do this for money. Video games. What’s better than getting paid to fuck around with video games all day? I found out the following year. It’s alright, all things considered. I learned about office politics and conduct in the work place. I was no different at twenty than I was at eighteen. It was all mind-boggling. Just some kid from Inglewood, you know. None of it prepares you for real people. None of it prepares you for people who aren’t real.
I’d stopped smoking by then. I’m pretty sure. It was toward the end of any notions of rebellion. Hell’s bells did not a-hang off of me, I’ll tell you that. L.A. What can you say about Los Angeles when you own a car? Went all over the place. Shitty beer was alright when investment in quality was low on the pole. I was hangover-proof. I could chug shit like any ol’ bro. I didn’t do this often, but I did. I used to be good at billiards. I would’ve hustled you good.
I can’t regret any of it. Not the apathy, not the indifference, not the living at home when my gut told me to leave. It took care of itself in time. I took care of it. Twenty came and went like a can of cheap beer.