A friend is someone who helps you hide the bodythat
A grown woman is like a coyote - she can get by on very little.
A grown woman is like a coyote--she can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and they'll die of sadness
A grown woman is like a coyoteshe can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and theyll die of sadness.
Any function of the body that one hid behind closed doors titillated me. I recall one of my early relationshipsnot a heavy love affair, just a light onewas with a Russian man with a wonderful sense of humor who permitted me to squeeze the pus from his pimples on his back and shoulders. To me, this was the greatest intimacy.
Anyway, I don't trust those people who poke around sad people's minds and tell them how interesting it all is up there. It's not interesting.
As one might guess, I was easily roused by the grosser habits of the human body--toilet business not least of all. The very fact that other people moved their bowels filled me with awe. Any function of the body that one hid behind closed doors titillated me. I recall one of my early relationships--not a heavy love affair, just a light one--was with a Russian man with a wonderful sense of humor who permitted me to squeeze the pus from his pimples on his back and shoulders. To me, this was the greatest intimacy. Before that, still young and neurotic, just allowing a man to listen to me urinate was utter humiliation, torture, and therefore, I thought, proof of profound love and trust
Furthermore, as is typical for any isolated, intelligent young person, I thought I was the only one with any consciousness, any awareness of how odd it was to be alive, to be a creature on this strange planet Earth.
Having to breathe was an embarrassment in itself. This was the kind of girl I was. Besides
Here is how I spend my days now. I live in a beautiful place. I sleep in a beautiful bed. I eat beautiful food. I go for walks through beautiful places. I care for people deeply. At night my bed is full of love, because I alone am in it. I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I dont apologize for that. In the mornings I step outside and Im thankful for another day. It took me many years to arrive at such a life.
I couldn't be bothered to deal with fixing things. I preferred to wallow in the problem, dream of better days.
I couldnt be bothered to deal with fixing things. I preferred to wallow in the problem, dream of better days.
Idealism without consequences is the pathetic dream of every spoiled brat, I suppose.
I didnt believe in heaven, but I did believe in hell.
I had the vague notion that bearing arms was in poor taste. Unless you were terribly wealthy, hunting was for the brutish lower class, uncivilized country folk, primitive types, people who were dumb and callous and ugly. Violence was just another function of the body, no less unusual than sweating or vomiting. It sat on the same shelf as sexual intercourse. The two got mixed up quite often, it seemed.
I hoped they saw right through my death mask to my sad and fiery soul, though I doubt they saw me at all.
It also concerned me that my demise would have no great impact, that I could blow my head off and people would say, Thats all right. Lets get something to eat. That
Its a romantic story and it may not be accurate at this point since Ive gone over it again and again for years whenever Ive felt it necessary or useful to cry. Looking
Its easy to tell the dirtiest mindslook for the cleanest fingernails.
It's remarkable what people become blind to when they're in such darkness.
I've lived with many alcoholic men over the years, and each has taught me that it is useless to worry, fruitless to ask why, suicide to try to help them. They are who they are for better and worse.
I watched that old world go by, away and away, gone gone gone, until, like me, it disappeared.
People truly engaged in life have messy houses.
Some families are so sick, so twisted, the only way out is for someone to die.
That is what I imagined life to be-one long sentence of waiting out the clock.
The idea that my brains could be untangled, straightened out, and thus refashioned into a state of peace and sanity was a comforting fantasy.
The second hand on the clock shook and bolted forward like someone at first terrified with anxiety, then, bolstered by desperation, jumping off a cliff only to get stuck in midair.
Thus, I lived in perpetual fantasy. And like all intelligent young women, I hid my shameful perversions under a facade of prudishness. Of course I did. It's easy to tell the dirtiest minds-look for the cleanest fingernails.
Violence was just another function of the body, no less unusual than sweating or vomiting. It sat on the same shelf as sexual intercourse. The two got mixed up quite often, it seemed. For
You can see wealth in people no matter what they're wearing. It's in the cut of their chins, a certain gloss to the skin, a drag and pause to their responsiveness. When poor people hear a loud noise, they whip their heads around. Wealthy people finish their sentences, then just glance back.