Great Expectations

My idea of happiness is numbness.

Because I am hating my mother I am separating women into virgins or whores rather than believing I can be fertile.
I have no idea how to begin to forgive someone much less my mother. I have no idea where to begin: repression’s impossible because it’s stupid and I’m a materialist

love is mad and I don’t want to be mad.

he kept telling me I was psychotic because I thought he was ripping me off and when there’s only one other person there’s no way to know.

The myth of art: artists have to do everything they can to do their art. They can’t allow any desire to stop them from working. They have to deny themselves any lasting pleasure. If and when they fall in love, they destroy their lover or else transform their love into distaste or despair. So artists tend to love either objects or people who run away from them.

I don’t think I’m crazy. There’s just no reality in my head and my emotions fly all over the place:

I realize that all my life is is endings. Not endings, those are just events; but holes.

“Not at all. A relative died.”

“Died of what, deary?”

“Probably, death.”

“You’ll be a friend to me, won’t you?”

“I’ll try. But you know, it’s not easy to be your friend.”

I’m getting sick of getting what I don’t want and not getting what I want.