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i just really enjoy fiction about mentally ill, emotionally twisted up criminals and obsessive losers finding bright spots of often fucked up joy in their nasty, grimy lives.
when all you have is stale cigarettes and cheap beer and week old pizza and bad sex and worse company– you have to find something about it that sparks joy.
when all you have is trash you have to be a trash gremlin.
or else what’s the point. why keep living at all.
There has to be some joy to squeeze out of even the most miserable lives of bad people.
And I fucking love it.
“but you can’t glorify/sexualize/romanticize things like–”
LET ME SAY THAT THERE IS HOPE HERE.
IF THERE IS HOPE ANYWHERE IN THIS DARK UNIVERSE, IT HAS TO BE THERE TOO.
IF THERE IS JOY ANYWHERE IN THIS MISERABLE WORLD YOU HAVE TO BE ABLE TO FIND IT IN THE TRASH.
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