Jack Kerouac's On the Road and Allen Ginsberg's Howl corrupted me at the tender age of 13. I was ripe for it as I was just coming off of John Lennon's post-Beatles socialist surrealist period and moving towards looking for deeper interpretations of Dr. Seuss and Weird al Yankovic. Glancing into the first person world of wild eyed, rambling men who knew only angst, chaos and alcoholism changed how I looked at things, and started making me look for deeper detail in everything I saw - trees, people, movies, relationships. Conscious observation of the world around me has helped me see a lot of beauty in both the bizarre and mundane. And when I started noticing little things about myself, like that I instantaneously fall in love with girls who snort when they laugh, or that the inside of my belly button reaks no matter what I do so its okay, I realized that I was lot more happier with who I was. And I didn't have to go on a cross country expedition in poverty while waving genitals and manuscripts at Mohemmadan angels imagined on the rooftops of the nation's greatest cities to have that revelation, though I did that, anyway.