Some mythological fat asswipe drives our national economy.
To repeat, the way you get to the huge, impossible yes is, you start collecting a lot of easy, small yeses.
This isn’t about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.
No matter what else you came up against, if you could smile and laugh while a monkey did you with chestnuts in a dank concrete basement while somebody took pictures, well, any other situation would be a piece of cake.
We’ve taken the world apart but we have no idea what to do with the pieces.
Fathers. Mothers. With all their caring and attention. They will f – you up, every time.
These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.
Beginning with Santa in infancy, and ending with the Tooth Fairy as the child acquires adult teeth. Or, plainly put, beginning with all the possibility of childhood, and ending with an absolute trust in the national currency.
Where we’re standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.
The photographer in my head says: Give me peace. Flash. Give me release. Flash.
The difference between how you look and how you see yourself is enough to kill most people. And maybe the reason vampires don’t die is because they can never see themselves in photographs or mirrors.
That’s the American Dream: to make your life into something you can sell.
Nothing happened, and nothing kept happening.
Going to work just looked crazy. Eating another meal, ever, made about as much sense as planting tulip bulbs in the shadow of a falling atom bomb.
On game shows, some people will take the trip to France, but most people will take the washer and dryer pair.
Tell the world what scares you most. Save the world with some advice from the future.
There’s nothing special in the world. Nothing magic. Just physics.
After a good-looking boy gives you rabies two, three times, you’ll settle down and marry somebody less exciting for the rest of your life.
The truth is you can be orphaned again and again and again. The truth is, you will be. And the secret is, this will hurt less and less each time until you can’t feel a thing. Trust me on this.
In a city this size, every year, hundreds of husbands walk away. Kids leave home. Wives escape. People disappear.