I remember having to take detours around the Hollywood sign to avoid having to see this grotesque poster of myself on Sunset Boulevard.
There's very little bohemia in Australia and it's one of the things I miss most about not living in Europe.
It's okay to talk about it. Death is so normal, I don't know why everyone gets so hung up about it. We all have to deal with it. Most people that you talk to have lost someone, but nobody talks about it.
How easy to be a bird or an animal, living from day to day, unaware you're alive, unaware that one day you will die.
He loved me and I loved him, but the number in my head was telling me that he was going to die today. And the numbers had never been wrong.
My best day ever. Got up. Had breakfast. Came to school. Bored, as usual. Wishing I wasn't there, like usual. Kids ignoring me, suits me fine. Sitting with the other retards—we’re so special. Wasting my time. Yesterday was the same, and it's gone, anyway. Tomorrow may never come. There is only today. This is the best day and the worst day. Actually it's crap.
