I don't think I could do it.
Never wander around, the prisoner of brilliance. Broke and drunk with ideas. Passion overcoming practicality. Romance trumping reality. I already know it.
My white walls are covered with dynamic magazine pages tacked with painter's tape. My bottom drawer is full of blue jeans. My fridge holds Orange juice, one percent and a Brita. I spend on things like snowboarding and Sony stereos on which I occasionally listen to the countdown. I like Van Gogh's work because his colour and style is beautiful. I hate Picasso's because it's ugly and doesn't make sense. I usually sleep at night. I like being in control of how I feel and how I'm acting. Anger makes me want to swear, shout and punch things. Not create a masterpiece. I read Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes.
So I can't be one of them. Them with their misbuttoned sweaters, bleary eyes and corduroy. Loosely masked anarchy, cold apartments, bespecled lovers, ironic welfare cheques. Sensitive, deep and emotional. They're closer then me, and they know it. They're just misunderstood.
I may try, but I won't succeed.