63. Betty Blue.

Realizing that all I really ever wanted was to live in a seaside shack, near a carnival with the lonesome jazz saxophonist chasing his perfectly formed free idea into the night (yes, I stole that line from Jack Kerouac's On The Road) and with whom I'd occasionally jam on percussion, while writing my probably unpublishable but impenetrably deep novel, drinking tequila shots, until Beatrice Dalle arrived and burned it all down. We'd then be moving to some French town, drive a yellow Mercedes, learn the piano, bake cakes and contemplate living in the countryside, before moving to Paris, and living above the L'Association pour l'Estampe et l'Art gallery and studio at 49 bis Rue des Cascades.

I just had to change the end.