I have been grappling with memories, overwhelmed with the need to write about a specific time in my life and trying so hard to find a way into it, each attempt thwarted because it seems I need to go further back, over and over. Each moment needing a chapter of background info so that the present emotion/image has the right resonance or power. And because it happened when I was 18 and 19 and was so young and naive and stupid and depressed and hopeful and because I seemed to fuck up nearly every friendship/relationship I touched that year I don’t want to write about it; I don’t want to re-visit those old hurts, those old insecurities which today seem so…pointless. I don’t want to commit those fumbling catastrophes to paper and see my younger self in black and white. “Mikey, buddy,” I want to tell my 18-year old self, “don’t do that, don’t do that to yourself. It’s all gonna be okay. Don’t settle for that, c’mon, stand up for yourself, don’t be so fucking quiet all the time, laugh more and hang on, everything you want is coming, just not today.” But Mikey can’t hear me. He’s pouting over a broken heart or a bruised ego. He’s doing stupid things for attention from stupid men. The least he could do is help me out a little, remind me of a good detail or a bit of dialogue or a small sequence of events. But apparently that’s too much to ask.