It is in the thirties that we want friends. In the forties we know they won’t save us any more than love did.
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I was just about to write this, but then realized Carrie Arnold had already done it for me. She took the words right out of my mouth, which works well for me because my mouth should be busy eating dinner anyway.
All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Is exempt from Change—
“Defining liberty only in terms of freedom from coercive hospitalization fails to take into account that such liberty may be meaningless in the presence of the debilitating effects of untreated disease.” – Dr. John Shemo, writing on behalf of the APA.
(Have I mentioned recently that he’s brilliant, though at times maddeningly insightful and therapeutic?)
Me: “Men are so confusing! They make no sense.”
Male (who shall remain anonymous): “Well, we have penises.”
Me: “And that somehow excuses you from rational thought and behavior?!?!”
Male (who shall remain anonymous): “No. But it explains a lot.”
Enchanted Looms by Rodney Cotterill and Networks for the Brain by Olaf Sporns, both thanks to the brilliant biochemist whose genes are most likely directly responsible for both the best and worst parts of my brain.
Genome by Matt Ridley and Just Food by James McWilliams, both thanks to John.
Descartes’ Error by Antonio Damasio, thanks to my favorite member of ΦBK.
The Girl Who Played with Fire by Steig Larsson, thanks (indirectly) to the Viking’s Fan.
(So far, the best line by far is the one I opened to in Enchanted Looms: “Thinking is a bodily function.”)