My friends had gotten used to a version of me that was quiet and unassuming--a quiet listener, easy to talk over, easy to ignore. I had a quiet, calm sort of confidence about me--thoughtful and not likely to act impulsively.

Every day I walk past all these cars and houses and businesses in the morning and evening and late at night and think about the possibilities. That car left on in the driveway could take me places. Or that building with the broken locks. I plan elaborate heists, but I never act on them. I could never act on something alone, with no one watching. To paraphrase a character in a play, I'm an actor, the opposite of a person--I require an audience. So I walk on, because I have lost my passion for adventure.

Fuck that noise.

Last night I broke into a house just because I could--I saw the owners leave for the weekend and I found an open window and explored this wonderful old house, this strangely foreign place. I started a fistfight with a friend at the bar over one of those issues he was always offensive about but I'd never bothered saying anything, then got caught trespassing by the cops and ran for a mile, and escaped on the train.

Then, getting off at the end of the line, I called my girlfriend and told her I was bruised and bleeding and breathless and alone and that I was lucky to have someone as amazing as her to share this pathetic, miserable, short existence with. I told her that despite all of the violence and depression and job losses and fear and anger and stupidity in the world--or no, because of that--I was happy just to be alive. I told her I was done with being dispassionate and unassuming and quiet and guarded and thoughtful. Life is too short, too brutal, too pointless, to be careful with it.

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