Somehow the only way to mask my insecurity was to overpower it with sex.

I felt more like Sylvia Plath or T.S. Eliot, an expat whose real mission was to escape.

My adolescent years were convoluted with ideas that chaos was good, that depression meant you were a creative person. My heroes were Kurt Cobain, Courtney Love, Nancy Spungen. Sylvia fucking Plath… playing Russian roulette with various dicks to make a point that I just didn’t fucking care. I was a mess. I was interesting.