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November 29, 2012
I owe it to the memory of my wacked-out erstwhile psychedelic groovaholic dad to not give a shit what people think of me, to strut and pirouette and sashay and stumble up and down the streets and boulevards and alleys and unbeaten paths in crazy boots and an attitude to match, to laugh in the rain, to cry in the sun, to turn cartwheels in the grass and to sing loudly in key and even more loudly off key, to face the world with rage and fire, to attack, to pounce, and, when I want, to retreat on a whim.