Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots, leave your jewels in the bank, and buy a revolver.
Here they were, on the only planetary surface on which you could walk freely, naked to the wind and the sun, and when they had a choice they sat in boxes and stared at littler boxes, just as if they had no choice - as if they were in a space station - as if the bad old days of the caged centuries had never gone away. They didn’t even look up at the stars at night.
― Kim Stanley Robinson
(Source: nathanielstuart)
You’re twenty-one or twenty-nine and your heart’s been broken somewhere between four and twenty times—fetal-position-on-the-bathroom-floor broken, real-country-music broken—and you don’t know how you can ever be expected to go on like this for fifty more years and change.
You have scars. You’ve injured your body in ways that will never fully heal, and you realize you are slowly, incorrigibly sliding away from some physical perfection you imagine you must have possessed sometime in the distant past. Maybe when you were fourteen. Maybe the day you were born.
You’ve gone on and off your medication and the bottle. You’ve had your first marriage and maybe your first divorce, or maybe you’ve always broken things off or been broken off. You’ve fucked and you’ve made love. You’re pretty sure you know the difference now.
You’ve thought of suicide in a post-adolescent way at least once. Practically. Stoically. Without any late-night phone calls. Just sober in a dimly lit bedroom, weighing cons and pros.
― Jade Sylvan, from You Know How Sometimes You’re In Your Twenties In America
(Source: pankmagazine.com)
