Punk was the only thing that made sense. No filter, no finesse—just raw honesty screamed into a void. I toured the coast in a van that smelled like rust and regret, swapping gear with strangers and splitting gas money with people who couldn’t afford a pack of strings. It was chaotic, beautiful, and absolutely unsustainable. You either burned out, sold out, or disappeared. I picked door number four: I walked away.