More on this book
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Young love is the only true love, a fact you learn long after the wave’s crashed and the tide’s receded.
Women are more pragmatic than men. They understand value. They’ll cash in for a good enough deal. Left to their own devices, men get caught-up at the blackjack table, drunk on the possibility for more. Female charm is an evolutionary strategy to get men away from the casino, take the needle out of their fucking arm. Left to their own devices, men will run this lifestyle into the ground, and this is why we have women.
There wasn’t a next move to make, only moments where I knew things had to end.
You end up with people because their trajectory matches your own.
You’ll understand what your ex-girlfriend really thinks of you, even if you remember your time with her “fondly” and still believe you “had something special.”
Generation-X became the first generation to treat identity as a consumer product, to be carefully considered, procured and groomed. Whether they wanted to be perceived as self-aware ironic losers or woke political analysts, thinking they were the right kind of cool was a chief priority.
You get to an age where late nights just feel late. But you search for little bits and pieces of it.
When a man’s goal is money and women, they’ll settle for achieving either with the least amount of energy exerted, leaving them enslaved to a master both at home and at work.
When the fantasy is all that’s left, the impulse is to get lost in it.
forgotten in adulthood. Like the ability to truly fall in love, once it’s lost, it’s gone forever. People who shit on adolescence—who mock those who miss high school, who swear they’d never go back while laughing at the cynicism they’ve developed over the years—are dead inside and should be avoided.
You aren’t a real writer if you consider what the reception of your writing might look like; a writer must disregard the idea of writing for an audience—there is no audience, there is only art. If you write for an audience, you may be writing words, but you aren’t making art.
The best writing should be complex. Complicated and unrelenting. No easy reads, no bits of light fiction, nor should there be books meant to be read on the beach.
Men want an excuse to give away every last bit of themselves, desperately seeking a hill to die on; a destructive purity, pure mayhem.
You don’t cash your chips in ten minutes after learning to count cards, but how much blood needs to be spilled, Vlad?
