Quotes About Obsession

I want to fuck you so bad I can taste it

I'm not so much a good friend as I am the saviour who wants you to worship him forever.

Get out of here, and do your little life, but remember I'm watching you, Raymond Hessel, and I'd rather kill you than see you working a shit job for just enough money to buy cheese and watch television.

All these people who say they want a life free from sexual compulsion, I mean forget it. I mean, what could ever be better than sex? For sure, even the worst blow job is better than, say, sniffing the best rose . . . watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh. I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut-hosing orgasm. Painting a picture, composing an opera, that's just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass.

The way she looks right now, you have to think about multiple car pile-ups. Imagine two bloodmobiles colliding head on. The way she looks, you'd have to think of mass graves to even log thirty seconds in the saddle. Think of spoiled cat food and ulcerated cankers and expired donor organs. That's how beautiful she looks.

In a way, being an addict is very proactive. A good addiction takes the guesswork out of death. There is such a thing as planning your getaway.

I won­der if run­ning is just an­oth­er fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a prob­lem I can't re­mem­ber.

Somewhere outside the hospital, in a motel room full of bloody towels with his tool box of knives and needles, or driving down the highway to his next victim, or kneeling over a dog, drugged and cut up in a dirty bathtub, is the man a million dogs must hate.

Finalmente, te quedas atrapado en tu precioso nido y los objetos que poseías ahora te poseen a ti.

My mom would spy by satellite, turning down the air conditioning, colder and colder, with a tapping keystroke via her wireless connection, chilling that house, that one room, meat locker cold, ski-slope cold, spending a king's ransom on Freon and electric power, trying to make some doomed ten bucks' worth of pretty pink flowers last one more day.

My secret wish is right now to be romancing this dead girl. A dead girl. Any dead girl. I'm not what you'd call choosy.

And I want Seth dead. Worse than dead, I want him fat and bloated with water and insecure and emotional.

When you just cannot stop working. When completing this one project is all you can imagine.

There's no escaping from constant escape.

People fall so in love with their pain, they can't leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.

Through people locked together crotch to crotch, face to face, crotch to face, crotch to ass, and ass to face, I dig a pit.

Los objetos que solías poseer ahora te poseen a ti.

Stabbing, Mitzi could write a book about. For example, why some killers kept stabbing for so long. Only the first thrust is intended to inflict pain. The subsequent twenty, thirty, forty stab wounds are to resolve the suffering.

Esistono un'infinità di modi per suicidarsi senza morire. Una era guardarti baciarla.

Her voice makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her breath makes me think of her breast.

Up those stairs, to anybody after the fiftieth dude, Cassie Wright will look like a missile crater greased with Vaseline. Flesh and blood, but like something's exploded inside her.

I'm so horny I have to go downtown and hunt for something to steal. It's a sexual release. You find what you want. You stalk it. You grab it and make it your own. After you've had it, you throw it away.

Then because she thought it would make a good case study, I had Koro Syndrome, where you're convinced your penis is getting smaller and smaller and when it disappears, you'll die (Fabian, 1991; Tseng et al., 1992).

Still—leave it to an American to take something too far.