“I’m an outpatient at a mental institution.”
“How do you usually feel?”
“Bouts of depression, bouts of madness, a little better, bouts of depression, bouts of madness…”
“How long have you been like this?”
“Since I was 17. People think I’m angry. I’m just in pain.”
“Physical pain or emotional pain?”
“Physical pain. It’s my leg.”
“If you could let yourself dream of anything—what would it be? A home, good health…?”
“I read somewhere in a book that dreams are either something you make happen, or something that happens to you. You know how Alfred Hitchcock and Steven Spielberg say, ‘Lights, camera, action!’ and things happen? Right now, I don’t make things happen. Things are happening to me.”
Currently listening to this on the turntable at home, blazed up on some Jack Herer and laughing my ass off.
If this is your husband, I have just endured a 2 hour train ride from Philadelphia listening to this loser and his friends brag about their multiple affairs and how their wives are too stupid to catch on. Oh, please reblog the shit out of this…
Douche bag! Hope you get caught!
