Whatever you have done, you are the sort of person who would do that.
Identity, that spectator of what he calls himself,
That net and aggregate of energies in transient combination.
Nothing bores in on a man like his own uselessness, and no job title, salary, praise or prestige will permit him to hide it from himself.
No one has your best interests at heart, including you.
Closets are fine things, and one should no more parade one’s proclivities in public than strew one’s clothing on the floor.
What’s worth doing is most likely irreversible.
When too many are guilty, one must pay.
Disgust, though never dispositive, is always indicative, to be disregarded at one’s peril.
“Keeping options open” is the modern declaration of perpetual adolescence: always glutted with choices and never choosing, always becoming and never being, forever studying the menu.
Eccentric behavior, like a genetic mutation, is usually deleterious, sometimes neutral, rarely beneficial, and occasionally lethal.
Youth is a terrible thing not to waste.