You hate old friends; they remind you of where you have come from. New friends don’t possess the background knowledge to justify and excuse you for the way you have behaved, so with them there is no need to bear the burden of being forgiven. People who are useful to you or who make you look good get your unswerving allegiance while those who are merely loyal receive only your disdain.
You cracked up and came back, so even a hint of irrationality scares you, lest it lead to the asylum gates. You are running away so hard from that suburb you used to call home that you do not notice when you recreate it daily. You wear unconventionality like a brand label while everything from your rare-trainer-clad feet to your artfully dishevelled hair screams trend.
You disparage others for their lightness of touch while your own profundity vanishes up a sphincter. Nothing pleases you, not ‘boozing or puffing, or your first taste of fucking’. Instead, you retreat into a cesspit of your own making, denying that you notice the stench. You will never stand behind what you create, claiming exacting standards for yourself that you will never attempt to reach; for that allows you the freedom to critique all comers, while avoiding such censure yourself.
