The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me. To do things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day… was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.
“
| — | Charles Bukowski - Ham on Rye, 1982 |
