Today Is The Sort Of

Some Writers Research In Order To Write. I Write In Order To Research Topics That Interest Me. Especially If I Can Meet With Other People, In Forums From Illness Support Groups To Phone-sex Hotlines, And Learn What Other People Know Best.

I Suppose It’s Comfort, Perhaps A Sense Of Self-control, Doing Worse Things To Yourself Than The World Will Ever Dare Inflict.

This Is The Biggest Mistake I Could Think Would Save Me. I Wanted To Give Up The Idea That I Had Any Control. Shake Things Up. To Be Saved By Chaos. To See If I Could Cope, I Wanted To Force Myself To Grow Again. To Explode My Comfort Zone.

The Future Is Just Wasted On Some People.

As A Lower-class Kid, I Was Raised To Think Success Would Be Owning Stuff. Having That Great Job, Too. Now I Find My Parents' Dream Was Wrong. You Never Really Own Anything. And You're Never Really Finished As A Person.