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Instead, I am going to become that person, unlike any other person that you’ve met your life.  I’m going to wear choleric red frightwigs instead of winter hats.  A soldier’s suit with golden sequins to piss off Midwestern farmboys who stop me on the Bowery to tell me my faggoty fanfare is a disrespect to their dead heroes.  I’m going to be observed in the last of the dingy East Village dive bars showing you and everyone else the multitudes I contain, and the dimensions and glory to which they are uncontainable!  And instead of this coming across as desperate or egomaniacal, it will grow on you, and you will come to see this as charming.  Brave, even.  As if I have conquered something in myself that both disarms and exposes the monstrosity that you didn’t know you were.  That $430 ticket you spent on that Lady Gaga concert was wasted.  Not that you ever had anything to be ashamed of…

And I am going to keep making culture.

And I will not live a small and secret life, anymore.

And I remember every single moment of the next few months, which I have decided to dub The Ordeal That Reinvented The Wheel.

I am 28 now.

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