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.