I was really into communal living and we were all /such free spirits, crossing the country we were /nomads and artists and no one ever stopped / to think about how the one working class housemate / wa...
They were living exciting, crazy, queer lives full of poetry and camaraderie and heart-seizing crushes. I mean, not that night, but generally. That night they were bored.
I don't mind doing awful things as long as somebody else does. I would totally jump off the bridge, thanks for asking.
and give me insults, give meeconomic discrimination, give methe darkened parking lot of a windowless queer bar, give me fleets of bigots and books bannedin libraries across america, feed the worldwith...
Maybe we could all take care of each other, I dreamed.
The horror of knowing someone and living with them and even thinking you're lucky and then wham and now you know that every person is really two people and how can you ever know what the other half is...
She wouldn't have sex with me in public bathrooms. Little things like this haunted me. I was only twenty-five.
The messed-up queers Michelle ran with tempted fate daily, were creating a new way to live, new templates for everything – life, death, beauty, aging, art.
You are right where you should be / now act like it
And give me insults, give meeconomic discrimination, give methe darkened parking lot of a windowless queer bar, give me fleets of bigots and books bannedin libraries across america, feed the worldwith...
So, go to Paris. If you can’t do that, go somewhere. Take a road trip, a train trip, a bus trip if you must. Find a place that reminds you that the world is so much bigger than your heart and whoever...
She was just so sad. Her whole face hung with it, like sadness was her personal gravity.
Nearly all the queers Michelle knew were fuckups in one way or another.
Michelle was shocked at how many beauty products were marketed at balm for swollen eyes. She imagined thousands of female consumers sobbing hysterically all night and acting like there was no problem...
Melancholy was a fleshy wave permanently cresting on her face, she had to speak through it when she talked.
How many lovers did a person need, anyway?
Being cast out of society early on made you see civilization for the farce it was, a theater of cruelty you were free to drop out of. Instead of playing along you became a fuckup. It was a political s...
This is growing up, having to stomp out love, this is how people turn terrible.
I wanted to try things, everything, especially things that are illegal and have a faint whiff of glamour.
Writing was the antijob, the fuck you to all jobs, her claim on her autonomy, what kept her feral and free.