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I’m like a photograph… a series of fucked-up photographs: a knife going into a person; a black-and-white shot of a kid in a trailer; a faded and stained image of an arm with a needle in it and a tattoo of a heart that says “Sandy”; a pink milkshake; and some palm trees against a light blue sky. That’s how I think of myself. I am paradise and the skids; heaven and hell; the satisfying feeling of seeing two lit-up signs outside 7-Eleven—the light blue ICE sign and the oven-red HOT in the hot-dog sign. That’s me. I’m fast food, like a McDonalds burger. I’m the trash mixed with the goody-goodness of those slim burgers. And that’s me too, slim. You can call me slim because I’m a cowboy, a Hollywood cowboy. Because I know that real cowboys are dead and Hollywood is dead, like a wasteland. But it’s one wasteland that I can gallop through with my personality and my tunes and create a mystery that everyone wants to be a part of.

Damn. E’ryone wants a piece.

JANE aka James Franco