I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.
You need to grab your dream out of the sky like it’s a kite and pinch the string through your fingers until you reach the spool.
I was struck with a bolt of distilled horror like I have never known before. Far worse than suddenly finding yourself walking through a prison cafeteria wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a Jane Fonda headband.
Thanksgiving was nothing more than a pilgrim-created obstacle in the way of Christmas; a dead bird in the street that forced a brief detour.
After I got my coffee, I leaned against a stop sign and sipped, pretending it was a normal day and I was only up this early so that I could go running and not because I’d just been on a killing spree.
If I were a serial killer, I would not be the kind that stabs and then eats the victim. I would be the kind that hides in a tree and shoots at the aerobics class.
Our lives are one endless stretch of misery punctuated by processed fast foods and the occasional crisis or amusing curiosity.
I once read about a guy who lost his arms in a fire. The nurse took pity on him and gave him a hand job. I don’t even get that.
I hate news and information and anything that threatens to puncture the bubble of oblivion in which I live.
We haven’t slept together. But we’ve napped.
You cannot be a prisoner of your past against your will. Because you can only live in the past inside your mind.
It was unnerving, the way she could go from cool efficiency to sarcastic to sweet within the space of thirty seconds. I found it very manipulative and controlling. It put the other person constantly on-guard. And it was extremely intimidating because you never knew when she was going to snap. I made a mental note to refine these skills within myself.
Most everybody had made at least one bad, drunken decision in their lives. Called an ex at two in the morning. Or perhaps has a little too much to drink on a second date and wept inconsolably while revealing how simply damaged one was, while nonetheless retaining an uncommonly large capacity for love. That kind of thing was, while regrettable, at least comprehensible. But waking up with someone generationally inappropriate, like your grandfather’s best buddy?
And human instinct is ancient and reliable, utterly mysterious and possibly capable of great genius. I believe that refined, fluent instincts are a person’s most valuable asset. My own instincts have repeatedly guided me against the grain of logic and probability. When I have trusted and followed their direction, they have never been wrong. I don’t know how or why. But I know that every significant experience-positive or negative-sharpens them and makes them more accurate.
I am tired from having lived seventeen different lives, compressed into the space of one.
If my mother was odd enough to crave a bubble bath at three in the morning, Dorothy was inventive enough to suggest adding broken glass to the tub. If my mother insisted on listening to West Side Story repeatedly, it was Dorothy who said, ‘Let’s listen to it on forty-five!’ And when my mother announced that she wanted a fur wrap like Auntie Mame, Dorothy bought her an unstable Norwegian elkhound from a puppy mill.
Awe, I discovered, was my favorite feeling. It was a rare experience, but when it happened, it was like an orgasm for the mind.
How many of the things I fear or dread are actually things that I want?
Freshly brainwashed from rehab, I carry the bottle into the bathroom. I hold it up to the light. See the pretty bottle? Isn’t it beautiful? Yes, it’s beautiful. I unscrew the cap and pour it into the toilet. I flush twice. And then I think, why did I flush twice? The answer, is of course, because I truly do know myself. I cannot be sure I won’t attempt to drink from the toilet, like a dog.
After a horribly long day, I needed a mental break. I threw on my parka, with the raccoon fur around the hood, and I went to see a movie. But what to see? Something sweet and stupid and harmless. At the movie theater on Second Avenue and Twelfth, a title caught my eye. I thought, ‘That seems good. Jodie Foster and a puffy, friendly farm animal, a butterfly.’ I unzipped my jacket and headed inside to see a movie I’d heard the name of but knew nothing about. It was called Silence Of The Lambs.