I made the decision to fully mythologise my teenage years. I did what I had to. I severed the cord of the expectations of my friends and closest family members, who had always valued me for my authenticity and unflinching self assessment. I transcended humdrum truths. My stories of aimless shoplifting acquired aim and narrative piquancy. I presented vignettes of stomping around town in big leather boots toting a showy brass hash pipe in advance of a denouement featuring city hall and a megaphone. From whole cloth I cut a goth phase. I watched with anticipation and then horror as my teenage years arrived at the ultimate communion of performance and meaning and then collapsed. They simply weren't unique enough yet. I developed my project. My teenage years evolved grotesque embellishments of humiliation and debasement and - yes - triumph. Bareknuckle negotiation. Erotic trial and error. Jazz, what the hell. My audience grew and grew. Hey, they'd clamour, tell us that one from your teenage years again. And I would.
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