St. Louis was going to save me. I was going to plant the fragile seedling of my flowering mental health there and ride its rising growth up out of myself. Instead the stalk was trampled in a wild ride of debauchery and loneliness and barbecue and insanity and music and despair. I learned so much. What I didn’t learn was how to save myself. This song was playing.
“And I could blame it all on you my dear, but really who’s to blame?”
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