The older I get, the more I realize that I can’t stand drama. I watch the sitcoms and I hear the news and I listen about friends’ lives and I am just bored with all notions of “coolness” and “funness” and “individuality” and “needs” and anything else that causes people to strive in their own idiosyncratic way to develop some sense of “identity.” You are a nobody, no matter who you are. Believe it. The Chinese have it right, individuality is lame and overdone. It exists only for its own sake.
All I want in life is a chair, a window, a game on television, a beer, some sense of what my basic responsibilities are, and a fundamental fairness that says I won’t be tortured simply for having been born so long as I do my bit, since of course I didn’t ask to be born.
Stone, sky, water, warmth. Those are the things that being — which lasts only a moment — is made of, and apart from the parents that bore you and the immediate others that nurtured you, those are the things that you ultimately will begin to miss in that moment that you transition from alive to dead, eyes wide open and afraid. You will not miss your goatee dye or your pink pumps or the network of shallow, climbing friendships you’ve built with dealers, promoters, bankers, or whatever the hell your network is made of.
All things are beautiful; it is the naming of things, the division of things that is ugly.