Brandon CrittendonClass of '08Back then, the town we lived in was boring. Upper class yuppies tread candlestick avenues atop stilts while we got lost amongst trash and cookie cutter forgeries of dreams, sat complacent and broke on curbs and benches, fucked up on benzos, or grass, or Wild Irish Rose, or boredom, or longing and didn't sleep for days waiting for some fantastical way out which never came. We scratched at the city's back door for inspiration just to get chewed up and spat back out again swearing that this time wouldn't be like the last time, but would in fact be the last time, and so stretched and called for stars or comets or black holes or the saddest highway in Utah where the car broke down 200 miles from anything, and trying to remember that feeling because this time is exactly like last time and we are still sitting here, silly and spinning and searching for the right words to express the underlying tragedy that growing up in small town America is, so we laugh and try to assure one another that we know what we mean when we know that we mean nothing. |