Instead Of A Quarter-Life Crisis I’m Just Being Myself, Which Is An Insane Person
I could never get into thriller movies or serious dramas because I don’t really care about plot.
I’m not into documentary movies either because they’re usually trying to teach you something or improve your life or whatever, and I’m not into that.
What I like is a funny movie with attractive-looking people conducting memorable/doomed relationships and reflecting on their lives/existence, with really flashy style and cinematography, so you know you’re watching an art movie but you’re still enjoying yourself.
I guess you could say I’m a shallow guy.
Most books I read are boring as hell. I don’t understand why you’d spend the time making your book dense with boring words nobody wants to read. It’s not as if it pays well to be an author.
What I particularly enjoy is a foreign movie with great style and attractive people that also has lots of graphic sex scenes, so then I can relax and enjoy a good art film and I don’t have to search for a good porn afterwards. Very handy.
I had a friend in college whose younger brother was very sexual, he was really a very sexual guy. We weren’t sure if he was bi or just made out with guys once in a while for fun. Anyway, he was an art student as well, and his parents, who were very proud of both of their sons, hung one of his paintings, a gigantic canvas, over the kitchen table in their Midwestern home. The painting, my friend told me, was an abstract collage of dicks — a huge canvas devoted to nothing but tons of engorged, erupting, intertwined dicks. But if you looked at it without really seeing it, you might think it was an abstract painting and not a bunch of dicks. His mom would show off the painting to her friends, tell them how the painting was done by her youngest, the artist. She never told them it was just dicks.
When I kind of want to break up with a girl, I start talking without thinking, and usually I say unsettling things that I know will make me seem immature or unattractive to her.
Like I’ll say I don’t feel motivated to work hard, that there’s no point to it. Or I’ll say I have no idea what I want to do with my future.
That’s where it begins to end.
I feel like I’m finally alienated enough to write my first novel. It will be about nothing and I’ll make sure no one buys it.
I have some maxims for you, are you ready?
When in doubt persist blindly into the light of further doubt.
It’s a really cold day today but I’m happy for each and every urination.
Let me tell you now why I am happy.
I’m happy about my chapped knuckle. I have really dry skin.
There’s a guy who looks like Gandalf wearing a charming hooded cardigan and camo pants in the reading room of the library on 42nd and 5th.
I wonder if I’ll eat steamed vegetables today. I wonder if I’ll buy a 40 today.
I’m happy my chest hair looks like a shag carpet. I’m happy I suck at math. I’m happy to be so lucky and small. I am happy to die.
I don’t feel like I hate myself, I don’t hate living.
What if I were you.
The perspective would be at once familiar and odd, a little unsettling. I’m beginning to think I know where to end.
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The sad truth is that even if we were to invest all of our time and resources into making ourselves look like somebody else, most of us would not succeed in complying with the ridiculously unattainable beauty standard created by the media.
Don’t pay any attention to what they write about you. Just measure it in inches.
I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, but lately I’ve realized that sometimes you have to put in the effort yourself to make something you want to happen, happen.
You don’t have to be “hot” to be sexy.