Give me lust, baby. Flash. Give me malice. Flash. Give me detached existentialist ennui. Flash. Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism. Flash.
Our purest form of joy comes when people we envy get hurt. That most genuine form of joy.
Get married before the sex gets boring or you’ll never get married.
Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.
If you start in the pit of despair with these profane, awful things, even a glimmer of hope or awareness is going to occur that’s much brighter coming from this dark, awful beginning.
Some of the best ideas I get seem to happen when I’m doing mindless manual labor or exercise. I’m not sure how that happens, but it leaves me free for remarkable ideas to occur.
These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.
Me with nothing left to lose, plotting my big revenge in the spotlight. Give me violent revenge fantasies as a coping mechanism.
This is the biggest mistake I could think would save me. I wanted to give up the idea that I had any control. Shake things up. To be saved by chaos. To see if I could cope, I wanted to force myself to grow again. To explode my comfort zone.
Find good in what the world says is evil.
I’ve been choking to death for years. By now this should be easy.
There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them. The regular way is just to watch the world do it. Just read the newspaper.
You tell yourself that noise is what defines silence. Without noise, silence would not be golden. Noise is the exception.
What’s burning down is a re-creation of a period revival house patterned after a copy of a copy of a copy of a mock Tudor big manor house. It’s a hundred generations removed from anything original, but the truth is aren’t we all?
What you see at fight club is a generation of men raised by women.
Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit.
This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shunning. Witch-burning.
Almost all the time, you tell yourself you’re loving somebody when you’re just using them. This only looks like love.
Everyone’s in their own personal coma.
In light this bright, after so long in the dark, everything we can see is only black and white. Only glaring shape-outlines we have to blink against.