You Can Only Whine For So Long.

My Parents Say That Even As A Very, Very Little Kid, The Way That I Acted Was Dramatically Different From Other Little Kids.

The Idea Began To Sink In, More Than It Ever Had, That I Might Be Crazy, In The Traditional Sense Of The Word. That I Might Be, Forever And Ever Amen, A Crazy Person. That's What We'd Suspected All Along, What I'd Been Working So Hard To Disprove, What Might Be True. I Preferred, By Far, Being Dead.

And It's California, Where Everything Is Powerfully Strange. Everyone Wants It To Be Home. Everyone Left Where He Or She Was From With Dreams Of Transformation. Everyone Runs Away To California At Least Once, Or At Least All The Lonely, Hungry People Do.

And So I Went Through The Looking Glass, Stepped Into The Netherworld, Where Up Is Down And Food Is Greed, Where Convex Mirrors Cover The Walls, Where Death Is Honor And Flesh Is Weak. It Is Ever So Easy To Go. Harder To Find Your Way Back.

You Wake Up One Morning And There It Is, Sitting In An Old Plaid Bathrobe In Your Kitchen, Unpleasant And Unshaved. You Look At It, Heart Sinking. Madness Is A Rotten Guest.