My Punkest Friend

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One of my greatest friends will not admit that he is a punk.

When he rolled his own cigarettes, he made them out of old receipts, using post it notes as filters.

He painted the lights in the hallways of his apartment building with farm animals.

He allowed a homeless guy to sleep on his couch and print his extremist manifestos because if he was a homeless queer person, he would have wanted someone to give him a roof.

When he had a party at his place, he brought a toaster and bread and butter to the room where a stoned girl was suffering from cravings and made her that damn toast.

He is always good for bumming cigarettes.

He tries to exchange ice cream for weed.

He lets friends borrow clothes for job interviews.

He wore a beanie he found on a bus in Portland and gave it to me.

When he shop-lifted, he gave the things he stole to people who needed them/wanted them.

When he went backpacking in New Zealand and he needed money, he spent a month picking apples.

He gives away art projects that he has made as home-warming gifts.

He embroiders lascivious things on his underwear.

He punches assholes in the face who call him a queer.

He inspires me.

 

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