I'm angry at this whole damn society. I despise this culture filled with mass produced pornography. I'm proud of myself for not engaging myself with that grotesque product. I'm disgusted at the idea that it's a product to begin with.

My type? What, a female between eighteen and sixty?

I do believe in Providence. There have been far too many tiny perfect coincidences in my life. At some point, they cease to be coincidences.

I find myself in social situations often where I think of a response to something someone has just said and it’s just too good not to say it. More often than not, it’s something rude or offensive or disturbing. Always funny or poignant, though. And very rarely something I actually feel.

All of a sudden I'm inside the pimple realizing how grotesque this middle period is in a pimple's life. Before the white gunk emerges, when the pimple is half-internal, half-external. Veins from inside your face taking on a new shape, circling around the round ball like deranged earthworms.

The reinvention, the self-improvement, this kind of planning never really ends. It's not like you cross off six out of seven things from a recent list and voila, no more lists to worry about. It sounds more exhausting than it is. The life project.