Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "The world is a fine place and worth fighting for." I agree with the second part.
What’s in the box? What’s in the fucking box?
Now I see this clearly. My whole life is pointed in one direction. There never has been a choice for me.
Detective. Detective. DETECTIVE! You're looking for me.
Loneliness has followed me my whole life, everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man.
June twenty-ninth. I gotta get in shape. Too much sitting has ruined my body. Too much abuse has gone on for too long. From now on there will be 50 pushups each morning, 50 pullups. There will be no more pills, no more bad food, no more destroyers of my body. From now on will be total organization. Every muscle must be tight.
Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
This guy's methodical, exacting, and worst of all, patient.
Each night when I return the cab to the garage, I have to clean the cum off the back seat. Some nights, I clean off the blood.
You're no messiah. You're a movie of the week. You're a fucking t-shirt, at best.