Kris Kidd Quotes

I think it's pretty common to hold onto people, to bribe them with things, say, a body, in the hopes of keeping them from leaving you. I don't think it's uncommon to invert such behaviors, to become something unlovable, in an effort to speed up the process of the inevitable. Fighting is an instinct. So is running. Everybody knows how to destroy a good thing. It's easy.

The self is a smokescreen.

Mac, Phase: everyone here is of the we-don't-use-real-names-here mentality, so most of the time I feel like a really pilled up Snow White rolling around in the hood with seven drug-dealing dwarves - which, I don't know ... these things are never really as fun as they sound like they'd be.

In Los Angeles, everything is 100% organic, except the people.

There's a weight in the room now, a remembrance of childhood. It sinks like a stone, or a heart, or my weight on a good day.

You preach cleanliness,
so I try to keep my room clean,
but I feel no closer to God, and I guess that's okay
because he doesn't know
who he's fucking with anyway.

Dead Prez is playing on the car's stereo, telling me that it's bigger than Hip-Hop, but I beg to differ.

The homeless dudes on Alameda all have legs any runway model would kill for, and sometimes I think of giving them money, but - I don't know, I've got bills to not pay, and drinks to make people buy for me.

Every ghost has a story. Monsters are nothing without mythology.

I love like a beaten child and I trust like an addict.

I like people with weak will and bad taste.
It feels like anything is possible.

February falls on top of me like a cartoon piano. I reek of champagne, come, and CK One.

You grow bored of these shrines, and you abandon them
because you know for a fact that you will worship
anything you kneel before.
Like God.
Like cock.
Like porcelain.

I like the way I feel when I've got nothing to lose.

I think of drug dealers like I think of my father - never really there when you want them to be.

Cry wolf often enough and you eventually get eaten by the wolf, even if the wolf is you.

It's so hard not to be fascinated by the broken, to remember that a boy with a sad smile and a pretty face is not the boy that you should fall in love with.

I want to know exactly how many pieces of myself I had to give away before I became something else entirely.

My outsides are precise and unreliable. The illusion of self is increasingly purposeful. A sort of erasure. Inside of me, a flex. A fervor. I feel invented.

What sets us apart from some of the other options available would definitely be our unique combination of skills and craftsmanship with being a well-managed business. We control the number of projects we are involved with so that our clients remain a top priority throughout the duration of their project.

What if I were to tell you the game's been rigged, that I was destined to win from the very beginning? To be clear: Winning is subjective. For the record: I win by losing, by avoiding the confusion of possibility, the sheer terror of potential. To make a long story short: I win when I lose and I lose by running, by pushing you away.

I've come to realize that hunger feels more like home than any tangible structure ever has, or probably ever will. I know now that creating absence is my way of coping with absence.

Another piano falls, but this time it's me - or my lascivious loneliness, or my grab bag of mental instabilities and emotional shortcomings, or whatever.

In the mirror I stand, an injured deer in headlights,
or maybe high beams, judging by the way my eyes water. I measure my wrists with my fingers, and I clutch at my rib cage, fingering it languidly, tracing the rise and fall of sharp bones until my heartbeat slows, and I dream of a faraway ocean.

I dye my jeans jet black once a week, but they never seem dark enough. I bleach my hair bright white twice a month but it never seems light enough. I drink two and a half bottles of champagne every night but I never seem drunk enough. And I know I'm not high enough until someone grabs my face to check my vision to see if I'm still responsive - And even then, I'm thinking to myself that I should probably do one more line, you know, just to be safe.

I only hold on so I can let go.

Apathetic in my adolescence,
my heart is fluorescent. It flickers
like liquor store lights in the ghetto.

You were trying to find a way to get rid of yourself,
but you were still left with your mouth.

This is a view that reminds you of you.
This is a metaphor you had nothing to do with.

The more we look at anything, the more we see ourselves in the thing. This is called projection. There's an ethics to projection, an unhinged sense of honesty. Honesty is complicated. The truth is fascinatingly flexible. Lying is boundless. It knows no limits. People lie all the time. Lying is an instinct. It's human nature. We lie to each other; we lie to ourselves. It isn't right, but we do.

And I guess at the end of the day, you're just amazed that I can still stand, and I'm just amazed that I can stand still.

In the soft light of morning, the sky outside turning light blue, my answer is always and still: "I'm fine.

Coming down for the thousandth time, I'm perched on the precipice of a billion broken promises. I'm speeding through the intersections of my own broken heartstrings, blowing red lights and ignoring red flags. I'm thinking, 'history repeats itself.' I'm wondering why. The world outside is still happening also.

The piece of you that loves a part of me tries its best to hold onto the rest,
but my heart is a thousand-piece puzzle of a faraway galaxy, deep purple,
colors blending together and impossible to place.

Get rid of me, I get it.

I've memorized the best angles in the bathroom mirror from which to see how badly I've disintegrated. I truly do go from sixty to zero.

My nose bleeds, and every comedown feels like an overdose. I try to make peace with God each time, but he shows no interest, and it reminds me of my dad, and I get so upset that I just have to do another line. Like I said, a cycle.

You are only as deep
as the ashtrays you use. You only stick around because you like the abuse.

Drugs may know how to numb a brain, but the past never forgets to resurface.

I drink Coke-zero while I score coke from an honors student in Huntington Beach.

Sometimes, I worry I'm winning.

It's 2009, a Thursday night in September, and I've stopped looking for stars in the Los Angeles sky. I settle instead for the ones I see in my head when I go three or four days without eating. Same difference.

I gave them everything I had, and I guess it feels
alright.
I gave them my body,
and they use it every night.

My desire to self-destruct is a one-night stand
on Groundhog Day.
Fucking repetitive. Repetitively fucking.

When you're finally finished crying, I hope you run as fast and as far as you possibly can from me. When you land, out of breath, and I'm finally out of sight, finally out of mind, you'll be honestly fine. All wounds will be healed. All fires will be extinguished. I'll be a memory. Feel free to repress me.

Sunrise is starting to feel like a guilt trip.

And then he's somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I'm somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust - about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.

The game is getting old, and I don't know if it's because I've mastered the art of it, or if I just have some weird attention-deficit-disorder when it comes to getting my way all the time, every time.

They say you can't build Rome in a day, but I'm pretty sure you could destroy it in even less.

I have this working theory that the main cause of traffic after a car accident is rarely the accident itself. I think people just slow down to get a closer look at the wreckage.

A drop in the bucket, a tear in the ocean, you've been treading cold water, memorizing the motion just to stay afloat.

The idyllic mayhem of two cultures colliding just doesn't seem as funny anymore.

Under the influence, I am easily influenced. I try to keep my pants on, but some things are easier said than done.

I want to remember what we were like before we became ourselves.

There's stranger sex than sex with strangers.

I love you. Let's get this over with.

There is stability in self-destruction, in prolonging sadness as a means of escaping abstractions like happiness. Rock bottom is a surprisingly comfortable place to lay your head. Looking up from the depths of another low often seems a lot safer than wondering when you'll fall again. Falling feels awful.

I'd rather fucking fly.

Your house was not yours, but your late father's, and his pool
was almost as shallow as I was when I asked if you thought I looked good [...]
Your bedroom walls were covered in pictures, and your shag carpet
was almost as green as I was when I realized I wasn't the only one
being hurt.

A bag of bones can slip through small cracks in a crowd effortlessly.

See, that's the thing about L.A. - When you've mastered the art of feeling lonely in a room full of people, that's when you know.