Book Two: Wilder

  God, I HATE birthdays! I don't tell anyone when mine is, but they always know anyway, and they always sing me some shitty song. It makes me wanna puke.
  I came down to Hard Times looking for that cute buzzboy from last week, but just my luck, he's AWOL. Colbert and her dippy sidhe friends stand in the corner, but I've got nothing to say to those ginks. Stupid bluebloods look fit to shit their pants. They don't thrash, that's for sure, and it's a bet they don't party. Makes you wonder how - and IF - they ever get wild. Are they born with rectal implants? I'll bet they are.
  No live band tonight, just piped-in shit. No wonder this place is dead. This sucks. I've gotta find another club. This one's a loss. Even so, I've gotta admit the DJ's good. He's got that new Black Flag album going, the one where that guy's punching the mirror. I know how he feels. Over in the corner, Colbert's friends are covering their ears. Good! The song would scare them if they understood the words. Rise above!! screams the guy with the mirror, We're gonna rise above!!
  Words to live by.
  Maybe this club's not so lame anyway.