Henry Rollins is right.
I should end this post right there, but that would be nowhere near narcissistic enough. Over the past week I’ve been reading Smile, You’re Traveling, which is probably the tenth Rollins book I’ve read. It is framed as a travelogue circa 1997, but essentially it is a couple of years’ worth of journal entries written by a depressed man with self esteem issues. I mean no criticism with that comment; after all, I’ve spent the majority of my life as a depressed man with self esteem issues.