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I don’t want to complain, but…
Everything depresses me. Like unambitious white people drinking around a campfirein New Hampshire depresses me. Like all of America that isn’t NYC depresses me. Like all the outer boroughs depress me. Like everything that isn’t the tallest, shiniest buildings in Manhattan depresses me. I neeeed to be similarly way way above the mess down there. Fixation with infinite perfection can be a sign of immaturity and also psychosis, so I hear (ever watch Taxidriver?). I share this trait with several of my least accomplished friends. If it’s not perfect or close then it’s worthless. 60% perfect is a particularly ugly percentage. This goes for other things. If it’s not infinite love then it’s nothing at all. To know you're being shown the diplomatic side of someone’s ambivalence, the stronger side of someone’s indifference—what can be worse! Between a rock and a boring place, spinning in place. I want to be rich, and I want a motorcycle.