Sunday, the worst god-damned day of them all.
Looking ahead I liked very little of what I saw. I wasn’t a misanthrope and I wasn’t a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.
Books could make you soft. When you put them down, and really went out there, then you needed to know what they never told you.
You’ll never be a writer if you hide from reality."
“What are you talking about? That’s what writers do!
Only assholes talk about writing … "
“You calling me an asshole?”