In 1992, I bought David Wojnarowicz’s Memories That Smell Like Gasoline for $15—a hefty price at the time for someone so underemployed and lost in the world. Later, when I entered graduate school and briefly thought I would devote my life to performance art, I adapted an excerpt into—despite Fred Curchack’s vita—a co-created performance entitled The Show. I’m lucky to be able to say that working with Curchack was one of the worst experiences as an adult, particularly since he didn’t behave like one. But despite developing interests in other areas, I have maintained my love and appreciation of Wojnarowicz. I’m glad he’s in the news again and that people are hearing his name and seeing his images, hearing his voice. When I pulled out his book this morning, I found a newspaper clipping announcing his death; I had written “22 July 92″ at the lower righthand corner.