"I want a drink. I want fifty drinks. I want a pipe and some rock. I want a long fat line of meth, I want ten hits of acid, a tube of industrial-strength glue. Give me a bottle of pills, give me some dope laced with PCP. Give me something. Anything. I need to get out of here. If not in body, at least in mind. I need to get the fuck out of here."
It's a traffic jam when you're already late. It's a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break. It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. It's meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife. And isn't it ironic?
I have tried to live my life so that my family would love me and my friends would respect me. The others, they can do whatever the hell they please.
When he grabbed my hand, half of me wanted to scream not to touch me. And half wanted to beg him never to let go.
Labels are for filing.
Labels are for clothing.
Labels are not for people.
+ + Martina Navratilova
No comments:
Post a Comment