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Sid Vicious (b. John Simon Ritchie)
B. 5.10.57 London / D. 2.1.79 New York City
Heroin Overdose

My therapist instructed me today to try and do at least three trivial things before I see her next, on Wednesday. Here is Tuesday night—I left my cat outside while I watched Michael Jackson dancing Billie Jean and she got in a fight and may be dying—the primary emotional relationship of my adult life, no lie.
All I know of widowhood confronts me. Trivial my tears, trivial my toils, trivial my guilty feelings, trivial my heart lights liver all.
So I am going straight edge as my first trivial act—an homage to 70s punk. After decades of apostasy and non-attendance I turn from a deathbed to a faith which has evolved within me somewhat in the Hindu manner—suddenly I'm poised to go bramacharya—I set the cleansing dial to its extreme. Watch for me to wear more red and orange, even yellow! To bother people more. Do yoga. Etcetera. My home life, trivial—my work life trivial even by my own low standards—my present withholding of sex the most trivial thing in New York—
where the competition remains very high. I need to score fame. I want to get on Charlie Rose and call him a wanker. Then I want to get close enough to Michael Jackson to slap that phony nose off his face and when asked my reason say, "Because I am an antichrist." Being this way or that way—being at all, trivial.
I am also anointing myself the Queen of Poetry. I’m only one of my kind.

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