"It's a wonder I can even sleep at night. I mean . . . I've done some shit, ya know? But now - I just - I don't know, you forgive yourself for things. And if you don't then you do your absolute best to avoid thinking about them. There are some things I've done . . . that when I think about them I get this really strong taste of blood in my mouth and I imagine bashing my head against the closest wall. Just fucking bashing it until there's not a thought left in my head. Just empty, black pain, ya know?"
"Sure, I think so," I said, looking up at him from the napkin I'd been pretending to fold for the past five minutes.
"Yeah, well you'll know exactly what I mean some day. The irony is: by that time it'll already be too late. One day you're handsome and young and your pecker's got steel in it and you're pullin' some pretty quality tail. But then - and it all happens so gradually that you never see it coming, like a cat sneaking up on a dumb fucking bird, ya know? - the rock starts to get a little harder to push up the hill, ya know? Then your knees start to ache a little and you think: Shit, I should've listened to my dad when he told me to stop jumping off the swing set. But I didn't care about that shit then, ya know what I mean? All my life I've just been fucking over my future-self.
"Anyway, your knees start to hurt and your abs turn into a bit of a paunch, but you tell yourself you can hide it. And for the most part, you do, but you're just living in denial; you're only prolonging the inevitable. Before you know it, every hot broad is a lesbian and they're making jeans smaller than they used to. You know what I mean?"
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I love everything that you write as if it were my own.
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