Kris Kidd Quotes

And confessions of love have always seemed out of place when you’re gasping for air, when you’re begging for pain,when you’re missing something, unable to change the channel.

My slurred speech isn’t from one or nine drinks too many, it’s from my father.

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.

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.

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.

Do you think dogs enjoy fucking? Or is it something so primal, so intrinsically necessary that it just happens, just occurs? Do you think animals can fall in love? I let you fuck me from behind almost every single night, always wanting to be kissed, but still, I refuse to roll over.

In the movies, God is an actor just like everyone else.

Then I drop to my knees because I can't find a decent enough reason not to, because reluctance rarely stands a chance against repeated behavior.

I’m not bilingual, but I am fluent in therapists’ jargon.

Crashing through windows I thought were open doors. Apologizing for the mess. Rationalizing my behavior in metaphors you’ll simply never understand. Learning to accept defeat. Watching you walk away from me, from us, from all of this, using every door I missed. Begging, "Please don’t leave me now, I killed those boys to make you love me.

Everywhere I go, I kind of half stumble, half stomp. If there’s a balcony within a hundred feet of me at any given time, I am on it— smoking a Marlboro light 100 and complaining about something.

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.

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.

Regret, albeit raw and relentless, is almost always unremarkable.

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

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.

Sometimes, when I'm chain-smoking and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I'd like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall.It rarely does.

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.

I want to be split open and reminded of shame.

There's stranger sex than sex with strangers.

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

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.

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 know it sounds a bit trite, but I really do get everything I want now. They say life is a game, and I guess I might agree if the stakes were a little higher, but it’s just so easy to fall into a cycle. I get bored.

I’ve always wanted to be the sort of boy who does the right thing without having to think about it first, the kind of boy who makes his bed every morning and wears his mouth like a vase for words of kindness and simplicity. My agents keep telling me I’m too bruised to play the part. They have no idea how hard it is to make my bed when I’m constantly sleeping in yours, how difficult it is to keep my body from bruising when I’m almost always on my knees, making room in my vase for you, and watching while you text all the boys who are up for the role.

I talk too much, but there's a lot unsaid. I've slept in a lot of beds.

My blood makes noise. And I’m saying this now, because I have a strange gut feeling that it will be silenced someday soon.

My fingers are blistered and they smell like lighter fluid— like burnt tin foil and rusted silverware. Quick question: Is it still considered heroin chic if I’m actually using heroin? No? Whatever.

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

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.

Sometimes, I worry I'm winning.

Sunrise is starting to feel like a guilt trip.

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

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

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

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

...stars are dying all the time. Some explode. Some collapse and cave in on themselves. Those ones become black holes. Others get sucked up inside of them just for getting too close. Guilty by association. Prosecuted for proximity.

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.

Sometimes, when I’m chain smoking on the balcony and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I’d like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall.It rarely does.

It isn’t easy,” is easy to say and sometimes I think that the only thing we can dois say really easy things to each other.

There are rules you've gotta follow when you fuck to forget. A body's only a temple if and when you treat it like one, but a heart can still break even if you never put it together properly in the first place.

Beauty is biased, brainless. It says little to nothing about anybody as far as ethics are concerned, so why not monetize it? Give it some value, pin it with a price point. Otherwise, it’s worthless.

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’ll be too drunk to fight when you ask why I prefer to hurt, so I’ll start hurling stupid phrases like I love you at your naked chest, but no matter what I try, they’ll all sound like cheap threats.

Standing in the spotlight, surrounded by all my selves, each of them naked and vulnerable before your lens, I want to be split open and reminded of shame. I know that sounds selfish, but I’m allowed to be selfish ’cause we’re talking about photography. Do you honestly believe I don’t see it for what it actually is: Exploitative? Exploitation is the nature of the beast, whatever the hell that means.

You ask yourself when you’ll learn, and the answer is always,“Tomorrow.

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

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.

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.

Fucking fixes nothing, but certain feelings are unavoidable.

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

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.

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.

You preach cleanliness,so I try to keep my room clean,but I feel no closer to God, and I guess that’s okaybecause he doesn’t knowwho he’s fucking with anyway.

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

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

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

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

I just want to get away from me.