Katerina James Frey Quotes

Blood is blood and it's all red. Show me what's in your heart and in your eyes.

Show me what’s in your heart and your eyes. I don’t give a fuck about the color of your skin or the God you worship.

I fucking knew as much as I had ever known anything. Paris. Alone. As soon as I could. As soon as I fucking could.

Our heart is an organ that pumps our blood through our body, but our heart is also an organ that fills that blood with whatever we are feeling and the blood, the blood, the blood moves through every part of us, every fiber of us, every cell.

The Alcoholic’s Dilemma. We drink because we feel pain. The drinking kills the pain. When the drink wears off we feel more pain, so we drink more to kill it, which makes us feel more, so we drink more. And thus it goes until you either stop or die. But stopping hurts too much. And so. And so. I go.

More than anything, I dream of love, crazy crazy mad love. Not the love of rings and white dresses and churches, but of lust and insanity, the love where you can’t stop touching, kissing, licking, sucking, and fucking. The love that breaks hearts, starts wars, ruins lives, the love that sears itself into your soul, that you can feel every time your heart beats, that scorches your memory and comes back to you whenever you’re alone and it’s quiet and the world falls away, the love that still hurts, that makes you sit and stare at the floor and wonder what the fuck happened and why. I dream of crazy crazy mad love the kind that starts with a look, with eyes that meet, a smile, a touch, a laugh, a kiss. The kind of love that hurts and makes you love the pain, makes you want the pain, makes you yearn for the fucking pain, keeps you awake until the sun rises, stirs you while you’re still asleep. The kind of love you can feel with every step you take, every word you speak, every breath, every movement, is part of every thought you have every minute of the day. Love that overwhelms. That justifies our existence. That provides proof we are here for a reason. That either confirms the existence of God and divinity, or renders it utterly meaningless. Love that makes life more than just whatever we know and see and feel. That elevates it. Love for which so many words have been spoken and written and read and cried and screamed and sung and sobbed, but is beyond any real description of it. I’ve known much in my short, silly, unstable, sometimes wonderful sometimes brutal always reckless wreck of a life, but I’ve never known love. Crazy crazy mad love. Fear and pain, insecurity, rage, occasional joy, fleeting peace, they are all friends of mine. Kindness and familial love have always come my way. Disdain, contempt, and rage are constant companions. But never love.

Wrote the fucking book. I remember when I finished it. It was the middle of the night. I had been working on it for a year. I was alone and tired and it was dark, probably 4 a.m. I wrote the last word and I stared at it and I burst into tears. Just sobbed. Face in my hands, for probably an hour, just sat and sobbed. I was the only one who cared, the only one who believed, and after all those years, I had done it, I had written a book that I wasn’t going to light on fire or throw in a river. From there I found an agent, and we submitted it to publishers as a novel, a novel that told a version of the story of part of my life. At some point someone thought it would sell as a memoir, they asked me if I was okay with it as a memoir. I didn’t give a shit, just wanted it to come out, just wanted the dream to finally come true. The publisher knew what they were buying. When it came out I asked what I should do about the fact that not all of it was true, they said no memoir is, just do the interviews. I was cocky and proud and believed in the book, and I went along with it, I lied, got swept up in it, and the book became hugely successful, and I kept lying. I hated doing it, and hated myself every time I did, but I didn’t