At the laundromat, waiting for the clothes to dry, reading Thompson’s The Great Shark Hunt, indulging in my new addiction by listening to a slew of freshly pirated synthwave albums and this thought pops into my head. One that’s by no means original, but one that was niggling none-the-less.
Ever get that feeling you’re a tertiary character in some shitty, indie coming of age movie, probably staring some Zach Braff clone? That you’re the product of some hack film school drop out’s late night “script” writing session, fueled entirely by mid grade weed and a Spoon playlist.
I like to think we’re all the heroes of our own personal narrative, but sometimes it really doesn’t feel that way.