Welcome To The Jungle.

They knew it was destiny when they started swapping war stories about their back tattoos: he, a gigantic picture of Jesus with a crown of thorns...she, the word "dream" in Zapf Chancery to remind her always to keep reaching for the stars - floating above a charming portrait of Hello Kitty being eaten by Godzilla.

Boy, his last girlfriend was a total square, he said as he rolled his eyes...she didn't appreciate the deep meaning of shocking, arbitrary body art. She was too nice, and she just couldn't fathom why anyone would want to have body piercings. Why, the stupid bitch even had the nerve to bake him cookies, call to make sure he had enough to eat, support his artwork, introduce him to people who could help him grow, watch his adorable kitties when he went on whiskey benders, move his disgusting cat-shitty apartment, and supply him with opportunities to blossom into an amazing and functional human being. Who the f*** wanted that, when there were tattoos to be inked, whippets to huff, emotions to suppress, and trite affectations to adopt to make people talk about them? Hell yeah, he was gonna rock around town with an 80s boom box named "Dwayne" to make people WONDER about him! HE! WAS! AN! INDIVIDUAL!!!!!!!!

Hell yes! Let's go do something to upset our mothers! she replied with a giggle, handing him a mix tape. He was gonna need that for sure. iPods were lame, she declared; she was totally bringing back the mix tape, because she was totally in touch with the spirit of analogue music, like one side was the Smiths and the other was The Cure? Maybe they could roll down to the Goodwill in his Pontiac Fiero to find something really unique and totally interesting and spectacular.