Thursday, April 14

Brian: Look, I don’t believe in love. I believe in fucking. It’s honest, it’s efficient. You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure, and a minimum of bullshit. Love is something that straight people tell themselves they’re in, so they can get laid. Then they end up hurting each other, because it was all based on lies to begin with. If that’s what you want, then go and find yourself a pretty little girl… and get married.
Justin: That’s not what I want. I want you.
Brian: You can’t have me.

"The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino." You’ve Got Mail

Everybody forgets drunk men, but no one forgets a drunk woman. 
— Stevie Nicks

There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call it jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar. 
Chuck Palahniuk

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there’s time, the Bastard Time. 
John Steinbeck 

Never a possession, always the possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes 

tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you have ever wanted. 

Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Everything. 


Your finger’s on the trigger, pull it

I know you want this suffering to end

And so it is forgivable my friend 


Flowerchild, you’re still wild.
Under a harvest moon can we eat of all the fruits of our youth
― Annie Clark 

My world falls apart, crumbles, “The center cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go … 
— Sylvia Plath, journal, November 3, 1952