I spent my life attacking everything because I was too afraid to risk creating anything”... “Nothing was ever good enough,” my mom says, “so here at the end of my life, I’m left with nothing.
The muffled thunder of dialogue comes through the walls, then a chorus of laughter. Then more thunder. Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.
We see what we want. We see how we want. We only see ourselves.
She’d lived through something the rest of them could never imagine. So much torture and horror that she didn’t need to tell people about it. She’d never need drama or joy or pain ever again.
Brandy says, “Don’t you see? Because we’re so trained to do life the right way. To not make mistakes.” Brandy says, “I figure, the bigger the mistake looks, the better chance I’ll have to break out and live a real life.
You’ve never seen a crucifix with a Jesus who wasn’t almost naked. You’ve never seen a fat Jesus. Or a Jesus with body hair. Every crucifix you’ve ever seen, the Jesus could be shirtless and modeling designer jeans or men’s cologne.
In truth, the degree of anyone’s succes depends on how often they can say the word ‘yes’ and hear the word ‘no.’ Those many times you are thwarted yet persevere.
Because supposedly those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.
How could you ever bring yourself to love so deeply if you truly knew how brief a lifetime could be?
Every planet will take on the corporate identity of whoever rapes it first.
They placed their bets with such self righteous bravado, but I’m the one who lost.
She named me Daisy St. Patience and never wanted to know what name I walked in the door with.
The wild daisies and Indian paintbrush whizzing past are just the genitals of a different life form.
I stepped into the back of a cab and simply told the driver, “Follow the blue Christmas tree...
No sin, no crime, then extinction not earned.
You do the job you’re trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don’t understand any of it, and then you just die.
He can’t live with knowing the future and not being able to save anyone.
Driving east, I’m not sure what we’re running from. Evie or the police of Mr. Baxter or the Rhea sisters. Or nobody. Or the future. Fate. Growing up, getting old. Picking up the pieces. As if by running we won’t have to get on with our lives.
Buster was Rant was Buddy. Chester was Chet was Dad. Irene was Mom was Reen. How folks lay claim to their loved ones is they give you a name of their own. They figure to label you as their property.
The club is too loud to talk, so after a couple of drinks, everyone feels like the centre of attention but completely cut off from participating with anyone else. You’re the corpse in an English murder mystery.