—IN A WORLD FULL OF GHOSTS, YOU’RE STILL THE ONLY ONE THAT HAUNTS ME

 

MODEL CITIZEN  /  Joshua Mohr

 

 

It’s impossible to describe real shame to somebody who hasn’t thrived on self-destruction.

 

I was going to keep punishing myself. It was the punishment that got me high.

 

Life isn’t about the comforts we covet. It’s about the kinds we can crawl inside.

 

Hey, Stupid. Let’s be stupid.

 

This was what happened when your heroes were train wrecks. You raced to board that same train and steer it into a tree.

 

Yes, we are our own antagonists.

 

There’s this secret about relapse: You want there to be a reason. You want it to be easily explainable to people after the fact. You want them to hear your reason and you want them to pity you.

 

Maybe I didn’t want to ruin everything that day. Maybe I just wanted a splash of anarchy.

 

That’s the thing about lobbing vague prayers—what if they’re answered by a sadist?

 

“Why is there a liquor store across the street?”

“Baby, there’s always a liquor store across the street.”

 

Some graves have gravity.

 

It was a long shot anyway, fixing a man like him.

 

It’s almost impossible to rip a hook from a fish if it’s been swallowed.

 

I felt privileged by the simple fact of waking up.

 

People who aren’t freaking out never say that they’re not freaking out.

 

One of the wonderful curses of being a writer is that I see subtext everywhere.

 

You don’t know if you’re capable of acting selflessly until everything ruptures around you.

 

I am a piñata and no matter how hard you knock me, I’ll never spill.

 

There’s a suicide in certain decisions.

 

What are you willing to lose?

 

I’ve always thought it’s spiritual what writers do, soulful, holy, requiring a peculiar belief.

 

Because we breathe means we suffer. We suffer because we love We love because it’s the only way to feel.

 

“This is your life. Take it seriously.”