Postcards From Nirvana
Pages expurgated from Journals by Kurt Cobain, ISBN # 1-57322-232-1, and recovered by Matthew Wilder. Filed under sub-heading DH-32QR6: "Afterlife of Kurt Cobain, E through L")
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that would never have guessed it would END UP HERE. That me, blond rock god icon guy heroine addict oh my stomach hurts fame hurts success hurts would finally get the BIG REPREAVE. And why? Because a bunch of white sweaty American daterape jocks wanted to fuck to my music and pound heads (probly of little unmacho guys such as I was--talk about masterminding your own destruction). But here I am. Much, much weirder than I thought. Not many blues guys here, but since 2001 all these people from some bad stuff in New York City, no one wants to talk about it. (These three frat-bro guys from a company called Connor Fitzpatrick keep coming up to me and telling me how they bought the EP before Bleach when we werent even popular. I say thanks but I wish theyd quit it.) They say being here is supposed to be "youre in the Presence of God" but to me it just feels like good dope, like my old anti acid reflux medications but in the form of a place.
The hard part is that I have to look down and see the whole mainstream corporate media taking my note books and turning them into this whole big (i should say HOLE BIG) vanity fair type corporate celebrity bullshit event. (And they cut out all the parts about Cuntney Hate and how I got here--just like she traded in my song to get a part in fucking Moulan Roge.) IF ONLY THEY KNEW WHAT I WAS REALLY THINKING. Like for instance they had a whole party for my little stupid fucked-up middle class white boy notebooks at the Mondrian in L.A. like they were introducing "the new vodka" or some shit. The whole thing just pisses me off & makes me want to go on some kind of Uzi baby-killing rampage because nobody is listening to what I was really saying. I really didnt have that much of a life except for the music, and I wanted badly for people to hear the music and wanted to "get ahead" (as much as I flagellated myself for wanting SUCCESS and the BIG TIME and all that van halen eddie vetter bullshit so badly). I wrote poetry and I listed my fave raves over and over again (Melvins Cramps Mudhoney Bikini Kill Sgt. Barry Sadler Jimmy Carter Shonen Knife) just cause they made me happy. I wanted to fill Wall Street with revolutionary debris and said so on many occasions.
But more than that I wanted the FREEDOM OF BEING A PUNK ROCKER and all that means (personal expression, liberation of women, freedom to think in new ways, breaking down corporate mind-structures). It just was too bad that my stomach hurt all the time and wife was more interested in Dolce and Gabbana than in me or music or whatever. There really isnt more to it than that. Look for deep meanings about it in the words or signs of what was to come or what have you but it isnt there.
I also know the drooling tabloid types wouldve liked the Michael Stipe chapter cause it had all the
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