Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely
content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.
“They always seemed what? They always seemed really great is what they always seemed. They picked up where your precious Cap n’ Jazz left off, and you’re sitting around complaining about no more Cap n’ Jazz albums. I can’t believe you don’t own this fucking record. That’s insane. Jesus.”
It would be nice to think that since I was 14, times have changed. Relationships have become more sophisticated. Females less cruel. Skins thicker. Instincts more developed. But there seems to be an element of that afternoon in everything that’s happened to me since. All my romantic stories are a scrambled version of that first one.
These things are going to eat away at me and eat away at me and I'm going to drop dead of cancer or heart disease or something. And I shake and shake, and I rewrite the script in my head until it’s 100 per cent proof poison, and none of it helps at all.