Life like two broken hands trying to pick flowers for someone you really like.
My ideal date would involve painful silence. My ideal date wouldn’t involve me.
There should be a word for what happens when you begin to ruin a feeling by saying it.
I realize every specific thing I worry about is nothing compared to the main worry I have which never has an object.
Sometimes I definitely feel a sense of accomplishment but it’s never after accomplishing something.
You aren’t sure whether you have feelings or not but that’s all part of the shrug you have performed in slow motion for your entire life so far.
And I can see either accepting everything that happens, or accepting none, but in between I lose hope.
You have never approved of yourself so you bother other people to do it.
In the photo, he and some old girlfriend smiled – greasy faces idiotic with hope that the picture would one day remind them that for three seconds they acted happy and thought it final.
And I hope we meet again so you can guess how old I am by the rings around my eyes and I hope we meet again so I can judge how much I’ve died according to your limp smile.
And I know that when I run from something, there is a bigger part of me that hopes I get caught than there is that hopes I get away.
He says, “Does it ever bother you how unneeded you are, almost everywhere.
I think tomorrow I’ll burn myself on the stove so people will feel sorry for me.
Outside, I experience a bad feeling and I realize it is because I haven’t been outside for a few day so now it’s uncomfortable.
I want to have money so I can buy food and not die.
Will I get run over tonight. Is tonight the night of magic.