Books

"Existence is this, I thought, a start of joy, a stab of pain, an intense pleasure, veins that pulse under the skin, there is no other truth to tell."

You have to be tough to be a drug addict. You have to sit there a lot of the time and be sick. So many times I thought, "I am not too much of a wuss to be a drug user."

Everything I wanted and tons of opportunities were in front of my face, but I didn’t understand how to take them. On Gchat I told my dad I was having a hard time, and he said, Anywhere is a prison if you let it be.

"I am sad that even the removal of an organ is not enough to scare me into being responsible. Not the threat of poverty, loneliness, disgust, despair, social stigma -- none of it is heavy enough to make me endure unendurable boredom. I don't know how. I don't know how to do it."

On the deepest level in my gut, I knew she was not coming. How could she come? It was ridiculous. Idealistic. Flighty. Fantasy. But she’d told me she’d gotten a driver, and she would leave the city around ten a.m. I had to take her at her word. Though I’d possibly be cooler, more authentic, if I didn’t scrub the toilet and change my books around so the obscure ones would show.