29 Nov

Jamie wishes he was in a gang; wishes he was a tough ass mutha. He doesn't want to have tattoos or shoot at people or throw gang signs (well, he does want to throw gang signs a little), he just wants to dress cool and have the memory of shooting at people and having old, faded tattoos that he got when he was 15. Just the memory: a recollection of dodging bullets, massive fights, getaway runs, and dumping so many stolen vehicles in the pond that they don't sink anymore. He wants to look back at his life and say, "I chased three skirts into a pub then punched the bouncer for the sheer hell of it," and wonder how he's still alive. He wants to bash a cop in the face, or at least he wants to remember doing it. He wants to wear original Conte cardigans tucked into his jeans and be regarded as a hard c***. He doesn't want gang life, just the nostalgia of the lifestyle--to reminisce and be left with the feeling that he's gotten away with something: his own life, perhaps.