i am constantly standing several feet away from myself, watching as i do or say or feel something that i don’t like at all, and i still can’t stop it.

my problem always was depression, straight up. the drinking, the drugging, they were mere accessories to the crime.

i just needed to stop thinking so much and start doing.

this was not the after affect of some coke – this was me.

in the meantime, i could withdraw to my room, could hide and sleep as if i were dead.

i am becoming a complete waste.

the speed of the sound of a girl falling down to a place from where she can’t be retrieved.

i am one step removed from my problems, more a nervous audience member at a horror movie than the movie itself.

don’t interrupt the sorrow.

my gifts are for life itself, for an unfortunately astute understanding of all the cruelty and pain in the world. my gifts are unspecific. i am an artist marque, someone full of crazy ideas and grandiloquent needs and even a little bit of happiness, but with no particular way to express it. not that i can even aspire to happiness anymore.

people tend to go crazy when they don’t have a container of milk in the refrigerator.

it is cold outside but i am crazy from the heat.

this must be a little bit like what it’s like to be a bag lady, to drag your feet here, there, and everywhere, nowhere at all.

we replaced her with a series of roommates, all of whom dropped out of school or dropped out of life as soon as they moved in with us.

what makes you think i’m so rich that you can steal my heart and it won’t mean a thing.