In Hollywood, 1:30am

So... What? You be an ex-junkie and shit? Yeah? Tough shit, sure, no doubt. You be wearing your hair long, you be wearing army fatigues as a sign of protest. Right on, brother. Oh, and you play the guitar as well? Fan-fucking-tastic. Really. Wow. An ex-junkie who plays the guitar. An ex-heroin addict strumming the strings, singin’ the blues, talking about how shit life is for him and his peers in the ghetto. In the ghetto of Beverly Hills. Yeah. Your life was shit, I’m sorry to hear it. But it’s not because you’re clean and you can read music that you’re a demi-God, you know? I should pity you? Really?! You want pity for the life you’ve had? The life you chose? No, you don’t want pity, because you’re above it all, aren’t you? You walk up here with your cool strut, you tell us all about your horrible life and how now you’re clean and a new man and you found God or what-have-you and because you read Kerouac a week ago and you heard of who Kant is, you think you’re The Philosopher. You’re gonna walk up here and tell us about our lives, about how lucky we are and how deep you are? Sure. We’re lucky. We’re lucky because we’re young, we’re lucky because we’re healthy and because we drove to this here place in a forty-thousand-dollar SUV. Fuck the environment. We’re so lucky we’re not even worried about the ice caps melting, because if our primary residence in LA goes under water, we still have a house in Colorado and one in Switzerland, so we don’t give a shit. You’re so damn cool, you got so much to teach us. But you seem to forget that you’re the loser here. You’re the one who was married to the needle. You’re the one who turned tricks on Santa Monica Boulevard to feed your habit. While we were at the bar drinking ourselves silly before driving home and running over guys like you. No, dude, don’t talk. I’m saying fuck you, here. I’m saying fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Horse. Get it? Whatever. Fuck off. You’re not gonna teach us shit, we don’t wanna learn shit, not from you at least. Go play your hippie tunes in Echo Park where they at least pretend to care about you. Here, we don’t want you. Don’t tell us you know more about life than we do. You just know more about death, and we’re not interested in that. Fuck off. Don’t be walking here with your dime-store philosophy. Because my girl, she creams for guys like you. My girl is dumb enough to think you’re deep and cool. My girl’s a stupid bitch, yeah. But she’s hot, and you know that. You pretend to be the new Buddha, but I noticed you didn’t go talk to the overweight lesbians in the back of the bar. You made a bee-line for the leggy bitch with dyed hair, thinking she’d be an easy prey. Fuck you for being right. And fuck off before she decides to suck your cock. Here’s a dime bag of H. I’ll throw it out the door, you go chasin’ it. It’ll give you new ideas for your future songs and your weepy tales. Maybe you’ll catch another leggy white bitch who thinks she’s Mother Teresa with a cunt of gold. But for now, get the fuck out. Get the fuck out before I tell you that I wish I were you.