It's okay if there isn't a God anymore, but I still want to respect something. I don't want to be the center of my own universe.
Someday it will be a doctor saving people. Returning them to happiness. Or something better than happiness: peace.
It'll be respected.
Someday.
"And I tinted my hair," she says. With one hand, she reaches back for a few strands and holds them out near me, rubbing them between two fingers.
"It's black now," she says.
"I figured it's safer," she says, "since you told me blondes have the highest amount of skin cancer."
Then she turns on the television, some soap opera, you know, real people pretending to be fake people with made-up problems being watched by real people to forget their real problems.
It's that old Chinese custom where if somebody saves your life, they're responsible for you forever. It's as if now you're their child.
You want to know the real reason why I won't fuck you? <...> Maybe the truth is I really want to like you instead.
The minute something better than sex comes along, you call me.
Painting a picture, composing an opera, that's just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass.
Sex addicts are really addicted to the endorphins, not the sex. Sex addicts have lower natural levels of monoamine oxidase. Sex addicts really crave the peptide phenylethylamine that might be triggered by danger, by infatuation, by risk and fear.
Sex pretty much cures everything.
And the Mommy says how the girl traced the outline of her lover's shadow so she would always have a record of how he looked, a document of this exact moment, the last moment they would be together.
IF YOU'RE GOING TO READ THIS, DON'T BOTHER.
After a couple pages, you won't want to be here. So forget it. Go away. Get out while you're still in one piece.
Save yourself.
There has to be something better on television. Or since you have so much time on your hands, maybe you could take a night course. Become a doctor. You could make something out of yourself. Treat yourself to a dinner out. Color your hair.
You're not getting any younger.
What happens here is first going to piss you off. After that it just gets worse and worse.
A squirrel is someone who chews her food and then forgets what to do next. They forget how to swallow. Instead, she spits each chewed mouthful in her dress pocket. Or in her handbag. This is less cute than it sounds.
There's no way you can get the past right. You can pretend. You can delude yourself, but you can't re-create what's over.
The first time for everything. The incomplete inventory of my crimes. Just another incomplete in my life full of incompletes.
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