Your heart, Bessie, is an autumn garage.
A waitress gave me this book in 2003. Then she disappeared.
She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs.
I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.
Take most people, they’re crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little scratch on them, and they’re always talking about how many miles they get to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking about trading it in for one that’s even newer. I don’t even like old cars. I mean they don’t even interest me. I’d rather have a goddamn horse. A horse is at least human, for God’s sake.
…from the favorite novel of every teenager prior to 2004, Catcher in the Rye, by that strange old creeper Mr. Salinger, which is taught in many a high school curriculum for primarily nonsensical reasons, most criminal of which is “historical relevance,” because it’s far less important for a sixteen year-old in 2014 to love reading, or know how (a subsequently learned literary skill), than it is for her to know what the Charleston was.