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He was never the boy who everyone could love. He was kind of an asshole, but more importantly he was something that God had tailor-made just for me.
He had been to the houses of responsible adults before and didn’t really dig it; adulthood all seemed to be about boxes, mostly boxes, actually.
He didn’t want to compartmentalize anything else, and unlike all the people he knew, he felt he lacked that synapse in the brain that could easily label stuff. Most objects in his head were beyond classification, anyways. For example, a picture you didn’t want to hide away but didn’t want to be confronted with every day—where the fuck do you file something like that? Dear god, everything was like that and therefore deserved its own special place, and god forbid you ever own enough stuff, eventually there are special things covering every inch of everywhere and you become some well person
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It felt like I was refusing my life; I was exhausted from the task of having to respond to stimuli.
He could usually cure the novice actor with one sentence. “You’re not afraid of being watched—you’re afraid of watching yourself be watched.”
