I used to jump on the trampoline in my backyard with my sister. Now it's full of seventeen year olds laying side-by-side, layer-on-layer, trying to accidentaly touch each other and accidentaly stick their tounge in each other's mouths. Hey, it's a crowded trampoline, things happen. Down the street my best friend Johnny- the one I married in second grade and the first boy I ever hugged that wasn't in my family- smokes up with his friends. They take hits and listen to Brand New, and I never told him that I think his new hair makes him look like a girl because maybe that's what he was going for. I don't know these people anymore, and whoever they are now are only ghosts of the kids that used to play in the street. Now we're the ones interrupting football games when we drive our cars down the road; we're the ones waking up the neighborhood with drunken ramblings. We're the ones broken by hope and deserted by faith; we fit the stereotype and we love it.
In the end, we are all the same.