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So, I'm sitting here in my nice clean apartment, listening to my neighbors nice, clean music, looking out my window at my nice, clean setting. I live in Building D, which is 4 apartments on the ground floor, two stairs, and four apartments up top on the second floor. I chose this building because it's low key, surrounded by trees, and close to the exit.

I keep my balcony clear of anything besides the small grill, mini table and two chairs. I keep my apartment spotless. There are no dirty clothes on the floor. My bed is made. There are no dishes in the sink that need to be washed, and all the ones that go in my drying rack are put away in their designated areas the moment they are dry. There's a can of air freshener in my living room, kitchen and bedroom. These are my smoking rooms. They have windows to clear out the fog when it gets bad. My ashtrays are frequently emptied. And my butts are found only in the ashtrays.

I have 7 neighbors. The only one who caused any discord moved out last week and already, a nice elderly couple have moved in to live off their pensions and an Ebay obsession. The rest are all good people. They laugh at the right things. They frown at the right things. They watch the news and read the paper. Only 2 of them drink, and they are very seldom drunk. We all get together on Sundays and have a small barbecue type social in the back of our building. The kids run around cheering and smiling while shooting their little squirt guns. We listen to the radio, never a cd, and talk quietly behind the backs of their wives about how pretty that new woman in Building C is.

Back to my apartment though. I started this out thinking of music, and so I'd like to revisit that for a short time. I'm listening to an old cash record that I bought out of the back of a Ford at work. I have 4 speakers connected to the sound system the ancient record player is plugged into. I'm playing the music quietly while I sip at an iced tea and smoke a light cigarette.

I look around the room. There are no posters of naked women, anarchist bands or marijuana paraphernalia. No alcohol stains mar the carpet, nor are there burns. The hardwood is polished by hand, by me. It is a very mellow setting that eases a person into comfort from the moment they walk in. My neighbors have even complimented my sense of decoration.

What. The. ********. Happened?!

As a teenager I wore my hair long with whatever color I felt like. I put it up in liberty spikes, hawked it, dread locked it, braided it and burnt it frequently while burning some choice green in vibrantly colored, mystifyingly shaped blown glass bongs. I listened to music so loud and so obscene I was evicted from several apartments. I grew crippy plants and laughed loudest when things were at their most inappropriate. I got into fights, not because they were important, but because they were fun. I drove a car that cops couldn't catch and I was wasted behind the wheel more often than I was sober. I worked so no one would question where I got my money.

I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted and with who I wanted. As an adult, I was much the same, only I knew enough to keep one step ahead of a police record. That said, I was not a helion, merely the closest thing to a rebel our times allowed for. I cared for my family and friends and I abided by a stricter sense of morals than you could imagine applying to such a set of habits. I have never mistreated a woman. I have never robbed, raped or killed. I lived my life for the fun of it. I swore, drank, screwed and smoked, as often as I could and with the best that I could find. I blew more speakers listening to more bad bands than I care to remember.

Yet here I am. Other than driving fast, and keeping to the same morals I have always held dear, I can't eve recognize the person in the mirror anymore. All the self done tattoos have faded into obscurity and hardly recognizable scarring. I am clean cut, and clean shaven. I may still wear the ripped jeans and torn off sleeves on occasion, but for the most part, I have settled. People tell me it's a sign of intelligence and age. Maybe it's true. The friends of mine who I used to run with are either closer to what I am now, in jail, a few are dead, and one of them is seminal school.

It's not that I necessarily miss the blackout periods and waking up to strange places hungover and violently ill with a grin on my face and a pair of shades already in the process of being slipped on. I don't. I don't miss that at all, and I guess it does come with age, because I look back and realize that I was young and stupid, even two years ago.

I think, when it gets down to it, that I miss the simpler things. I miss sitting out on the balcony with a cold beer and recently emptied shot gun. Cigarette in one hand and a twist in the other, blaring music in the background and a beautiful woman who is my world, for a day or however long we've been together, sitting in my lap or across from me. Grinning the same grin I am. Because we're both thinking of the fun we've had. Of the fun we will have. Because the world is ours and nothing as simple as some useless rules will change that.

I miss knowing that when I look in the mirror I will never fail to see someone who's been having the time of his life, and is just checking up to make sure his grin hasn't slipped and those bright blue eyes are still bright and blue. Then we're gone, me, my grin and my bright blue eyes onto my next adventure.

That's what I miss. I look in the mirror now and I see someone who works for every penny I make. Who works hard to keep food in the fridge, gas in the car, and a bit of extra to play around with in my wallet. I look in the mirror and I see someone who still has fun, but he's forgotten that fun Is the most important thing in life.

I miss that.