How have you made it this long without someone beating you to death?
There is fear!
Fine. I have no sympathy, but that’s fine; you don’t need to be giving people nightmares with the pictures, though.
I AM PARALYZED WITH FEAR.
EVERYTHING BUT MY FINGERS.
Deep breath, fancypants.
I don’t even know which pants to take!
How many pairs do you own?
Everyone hates you for wasting their time.
My bed! And my things! My Beanie Babies need to be zhuzhed every day to keep them fresh!
I just bought bananas: I can’t go.
Yeah. Besides, it’s too late to come up with any sort of believable excuse.
Far too late.
You’re not allowed–
I could kill myself; I’ve done it before.
–to kill yourself. Stop it. It’s a drive and a Dead show and a chance to meet people and have fun and be a fucking human being. You used to do it all the time.
I didn’t use to be this scared all the time.
Fear is the mind-killer, man.
The small death that brings total annihilation.
Please not the bullshit about the giant sand-dicks.
You should let it wash over you-
—and when it is gone—
I wish I had a wrench to hit you in the eye with.
–only you shall remain. Look down your snobbish nose at good advice, but know this: the fucker sitting in that dark room is the frightened one; the man who gets in the car and points it towards the party is whoever you want him to be. Choose the new.
That’s actually great advice.
If you walk without rhythm, you won’t attract the worm.
The worm is fear?
The worm is fear, yeah, and the bit about the rhythm–
Doing something different, yeah.
—is about doing…you got it.