Nothing serves to wither, it must be dyed to perfection. A history of vomit In this nice day Sunday, created by our Lord's fine to let us at least twenty four hours to sleep off in peace, your dear and loving supporng will teach you the art of rock and roll fused with the aesthetics of despair. The one in the other it works like a cigarette over coffee.
short, initial situation: you're dropped like shit done under false pretenses, you messed up the job interview of your life, you're twenty-five years and you're still virgins or other catastrophic situations that have a serious knack for putting you in a state of irreversible prostration. You whine your mother, you're sad, you do not want to be in this state but your brain does not let you choose and your upholstered pad of dirty tissues while listening to the songs of Nirvana's most desperate.
Good point: you listen to Nirvana. At this moment, when you understand that good music is rhythm to the sadness of your poor little heart was dying, you realize the one hand, that all is not lost and secondly you have to new fifteen years: you are returned the little creature who does not control his penis nor his lacrimal glands and listening nervously Marilyn Manson, dreaming of the end of the world. Be a teenager's second key, after the music. Because being a teenager, before being a little shit who has seen anything and nothing got it but who thinks himself the king of the world is above all the great philosophy of "fuck his mother the consequences." When the lunch his mother begins to emerge in your brain is that you can, you have to start phase two of the process management of despair, not to destroy because it is not possible, but for the live with panache.
Phase two is the action. The action because you know that spend the day in a fetal position before TF1 until it passes will do nothing move at all and, worse, you will understand that in addition to being sad you're pathetic. That means finding something to do to externalize. The first option is you screw up, but hey unless Mike Brant, no legend will be created around because your name remain rational, you are one. So let us be productive, creating the legend before creating the end. The second option is
rock'n'roll. And rock'n'roll music before, it is primarily physical shows the world how much you're stupid and decadent, how tu n’en as rien à foutre, à quel point au concours du plus con tu te classes dans le dans le top trois. Fais toi un tatouage où il y aurait écrit « fuck » quelque part, fait toi percer les parties génitales, ou teins toi les cheveux en orange à la veille d’oraux qui valideront ou non ton semestre, ou les trois à la fois. Ne demande son avis à personne, sauf si tu sais que cette personne abondera dans ton sens ou qu’elle te poussera plus loin.
Deux heures plus tard, tu douteras. C’est normal, ne panique pas. C’est le moment où il faut que tu assumes, c’est toujours un peu difficile, mais on s’en sort. Il te faut juste un point de vue extérieur qui par-dessus while others metamorphose your experience of rock'n'roll to make you an allegory of the absurd victory over evil with a capital letter. To do this I humbly advise you to run a theater, take your place for "Rocked" and spend two hours to hear you say that rock that's life. After that, you are sure that even if you ruined your life by making you tattooed "nictamère" on the forehead, thou hast done for good reasons.
