And once again I found myself wondering, as I drifted off to stunned and unbelieving sleep:How do these terrible things always happen to me?

Killing makes me feel good.

Money to me had always been merely something the sheep used to show each other how wonderful they were.

The faster it ran away from me. And I found myself reasoning that perhaps one more beer would unlock the doors of perception.

For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.

I am unlovable...I have tried to involve myself in other people, in relationships, and even - in my sillier moments - in love. But it doesn't work. Something in me is broken or missing and sooner or later the other person catches me Acting or one of Those Nights comes along.

I nodded with genuine synthetic sympathy.