I don’t even like kids. They’re always sticky, ya know, like they’ve got jam on their hands. Even if there’s no jam in the house, somehow they’ve always got jam on their hands. I am not the right guy to deal with that. I have no patience for jam hands.
I don’t find myself unattractive, but I also don’t find myself attractive. I feel like I’m just sort of here, not something that really grabs anyone’s attention. Sort of like a chair. Or maybe a lamp.
(Source: traumatrae, via unpecked)
If somebody says, ‘I love you,’ to me, I feel as though I have a pistol pointed at my head. What can anybody reply under such conditions but that which the pistol-holder requires? ‘I love you, too.’
He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
Have you ever noticed that humans have made it so difficult and complicated to “survive” in this world? It’s a vicious cycle. You go to school, and try really hard, so that you can get into a good college, and then you try really hard at college to get a good job, and then you try really hard at your job, so you can make money. And then your kids do the same thing. And everyone just keeps on doing this and no one even stops to think WHY they’re doing it anymore. Everyone just does it because it’s what you’re supposed to do. And like, before, when the human race had just started, the goal was to just SURVIVE. People just lived. I mean, that’s what really matters, right? Survival. Because after you die, it doesn’t matter what college you went to.
I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand and the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep and there are no words for that.