I get jealousy attacks all the time. I’m jealous at dinner that somebody else will think of something better to order than I did. A lot of times I do things I don’t want to do at all, just because I’m on stand-by jealousy that somebody else will get to do it instead.
A movie producer friend of mine hit on something when he said, “Frigid people can really make out.” He’s right: they really can and really do.
I suppose I have a really loose interpretation of “work,” because I think that just being alive is so much work at something you don’t always want to do. Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.
It’s just as much work for an attractive person not to have sex as for an unattractive person to have sex.
I thought that young people had more problems than old people, and I hoped I could last until I was older so I wouldn’t have all those problems. Then I looked around and saw that everybody who looked young had young problems and that everybody who looked old had old problems. The “old” problems looked to me easier to take than the “young” problems. So I decided to go gray so nobody would know how old I was and I would look younger to them than how old they thought I was. I would gain a lot by going gray: (1) I would have old problems, which were easier to take than young problems. (2) everyone would be impressed by how young I looked, and (3) I would be relieved of the responsibility of acting young– I could occasionally lapse into eccentricity or senility and no one would think anything of it because of my gray hair. When you’ve got gray hair, every move you make is “young” and “spry,” instead of just being normally active. It’s like you’re getting a new talent. So I died my hair gray when I was about twenty-three.