maybe a subscription to the paris review would make me feel better about things

I have trouble understanding why people give stupid presents.

I am slow to realize when someone mistreats me, it is always so surprising: evil is somehow unreal.

I would rather be bored alone than with someone else.

I do not say “A is better than B” but “I prefer A to B.”

Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking.  

I find fresh air more intoxicating than drugs.

I can sleep with my arms around someone who doesn’t move.

I prefer desire to pleasure.

Often, I wish it were tomorrow.

A burn on my tongue has a taste.

I have stepped on a rake and had the handle hit me in the face.

Even if it is an odd sort of present, I thank my father and mother for having given me life.

Or I should just read a shit ton of Édouard Levé.