Almost daily, I lose battles with the seventeen-year-old who’s still inside me. I eat half a box of Oreos for lunch, I binge on TV, I make sweeping moral judgments. I run around in torn jeans, I drink martinis on a Tuesday night, I stare at beer-commercial cleavage. I define as uncool any group to which I can’t belong. I feel the urge to key Range Rovers and slash their tires; I pretend I’m never going to die.You never stop waiting for the real story to start, because the only real story, in the end, is that you die

Jonathan Franzen, The Discomfort Zone (via thearanjuez)
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