Life is not what you make of it. Whoever said that was a jackass. Life is what other people make of you, and you don’t have a choice, and you can’t get out of it, and you won’t like it, and you won’t want it any other way, because everyone is self-destructive and everyone is a masochist, in their own way, some with pins and spikes and leather straps, some with guns and masks and jail cells, and some with needles and bottles and joy, joy, joy, of the kind your mother always warned you about, back when you used to actually listen to her, but not obey her anyway.
“I’m not satisfied.”
“I’m not satisfied!”
Rumpole of the Bailey never had these problems.
Rumpole of the Bailey was fictional.
I am trying. Maybe I am not trying hard enough. Or maybe I am trying too hard. You never know until afterward, and all you know then is that whatever you did was the wrong thing.
If you’re a stupid, cheerful person, then you don’t get this at all, but I can tell all the cheerful people out there: what you did was wrong, that’s why it went to shit. What you did was always wrong. That glass isn’t half full or half empty, it’s just half what you could have had or infinitely more than you knew existed or wanted to cope with.
I’ve talked to everyone tonight, smoked with everyone tonight, drank with everyone tonight, and I’m lonely.
Everyone is a very bounded quantity.
Not a problem, if you get to define the boundaries.
I don’t get to define the boundaries.