Brace yourself. You're a human; this is going to hurt. You have to get out of the crib. You have to get rid of your pacifier. If that means bumming it, baby, and burning your possessions, so be it. You're going to survive. But brace yourself. He said it's better to be free and shiver than unfree and warm; maybe, this summer, you'll finish The Dharma Bums - not to be tested but to feel your life. Brace yourself. Throw yourself among strangers; no one will force you to smile. No one out there knows how beautiful you were as a baby, how sad you are, really, now, as a woman; there's nothing out there to live up to, only the name you give them. If any; brace yourself.

You might see what you never saw before. You never will again, and this is what frightens you. You have always thought that beauty equalled novelty, and I see you getting addicted to the changes in scenery, so brace yourself. You could get addicted to the taste of your heart. You could really love the feeling of the wind up your skirt, the rain on your windows. You could get hooked on the murmur of the television, the din of music, the rattle of your PC. Brace yourself. You could get hooked on movement pain desolation hurt stubble-covered American boys who can't love you perfectly, or at all. You could get addicted to your fantasies. Brace yourself. If you take a Nytol, you won't trust your dreams in the morning.