Brandon Crittendon

Class of '08

Back 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.

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