Fuck Love Wasted Youth

That long weekend evaporated like it was never there. Banana Montana was somewhere down south pretending the sun mattered, I was doing my thing up northeast, and somehow it all collapsed into three days of hangovers and half-sentences anyway. There was supposed to be this colossal festival in Wedding—the kind of street fair that tries to be everything at once—but I barely noticed it. I was too busy being a worthless asshole in the Berlin nightlife circuit with Mr. New Hat and whoever else felt like showing up at 4 AM, and I spent a good portion of my time trying to physically force Anne into meeting someone, which worked or didn’t depending on how you count these things, and then I just completely fell apart because TRL was dead.

But that wasn’t the only funeral. The Scala was closing, and they were going to do it properly. Frank got us in, and we showed up with the kind of energy you only have when you know it’s the last time. The beer was Black Boss—actual poison, truly—and it loosened everything just enough that we ended up in this ridiculous conversation with some guy who seemed to have figured something out about pop culture that the rest of us had completely missed. Ollie brought his girlfriend and they made something together that felt like maybe it was actual art. I got photographed in a portable toilet and it felt either important or completely worthless, could be either one.

It was the kind of goodbye that breaks you open and then leaves you numb. Woke up yesterday and found myself surrounded by black stickers, someone’s parting gift from the whole mess. White letters on each one: LOVE, WASTED YOUTH, KOWLOON, the question mark implied. The stupid perfect thing you find when you finally surface from a weekend like that, when you’re still too out of it to know what any of it actually meant.