Beautiful World, Where Are You

I mean literally, sell it for money, until I have a lot of money and no talent left. And then that’s it, I’m finished, and the next flashy twenty-five-year-old with an impending psychological collapse comes along.

Maybe that’s why middle-aged people always think their thoughts and feelings are more important than those of young people, because they can only weakly remember the feelings of their youth while allowing their present experiences to dominate their life outlook.

We can’t conserve anything, and especially not social relations, without altering their nature, arresting some part of their interaction with time in an unnatural way.

Okay, I’m defensive, and I act superior, and I make you feel bad. And besides all that it’s obvious I have a crush on you anyway. So I suppose I’m very pathetic to you and not even pleasant to be around.

I keep encountering this person, who is myself, and I hate her with all my energy. I hate her ways of expressing herself, I hate her appearance, and I hate her opinions about everything. And yet when other people read about her, they believe that she is me. Confronting this fact makes me feel I am already dead.

Nothing specific. It’s just how I feel. I find my life difficult

I’m starting to wonder if I just never will. Maybe certain kinds of pain, at certain formative stages in life, just impress themselves into a person’s sense of self permanently.

Alice, she said, am I going to have to live in the real world one day? Without looking up, Alice snorted and said: Jesus no, absolutely not. Who told you that?

a spontaneous awareness of the unlikeliness of this life

and thereby preserving something of my – otherwise almost worthless, or even entirely worthless – existence on this rapidly degenerating planet … I include this paragraph chiefly to make you feel guilty about not replying to me before now, and therefore secure myself a swifter response this time