i feel like very few people know everything im into. sometimes i think that's a problem. you are one of the few at least.
if i did it, and they knew why, they'd want me to have done it. right?
i look for a drink and i am scared to because the bottles look old, even though wine doesn't go bad. but even if it did, what does that matter to why i want it?
(charlie kaufman can only write about incompetent sad middle aged men so many times before it becomes boring!)
holy fucking shit: shouldn't have we run out of stories by now?
there will be all this noise coming from the room and it can be tuned out by us not listening to her, but i can't help it. i can never help it, i have to. she will always slip something under. maybe she doesn't it for me. maybe it doesn't mean anything. but if it does, and i highly doubt it doesn't, their lack of saying anything - our lack - about it is louder and more grotesque than all the shit she has ever talked.
do you realize that your enthusiasm for getting fucked up means you have absolutely nothing to say; you and everybody else. i think i mean it when i say it.
your brother was sick, your friends were terrible to you, you didn't like yourself, and you were alone. i am glad it's over now and people love you.
how many times of just thinking about it before you finally come to grips with the fact that all of that was your way of being just like them? like all words, your posturing as compassionate is an another step to muddy your distance between you and the fact you really don't care.
look man, i didn't do it because i was stupid. i'm not the stupid one here.
you are so principled! if only everyone could be just like you! wouldn't that make this all so much better? couldn't you make this all so much better?
"where do you see yourself 5 years?"
oh, i just adore you. i do, really.
your eyes are like fart-sicles and my asshole is a fart-sicle holder for you when you go grab some more to eat! i'll be waiting for you!
