The truth is that the only time I’m happy is when I’m doing absolutely nothing. I don’t understand people who like to work and talk about it like it was some sort of goddamn duty. Doing nothing feel like floating on warm water to me. Delightful, perfect.
I haven’t taken an overdose of sleeping pills and called my agent. I haven’t been in jail, and I don’t go running to the psychiatrist every two minutes. That’s something of an accomplishment these days.
Women’s liberation as a movement makes some valid points. But in the final analysis, it doesn’t matter who wears the pants – as long as there’s money in the pockets.
When I’m old and gray, I want to have a house by the sea. And paint. With a lot of wonderful chums, good music, and booze around. And a damn good kitchen to cook in.
I want to remember it all, the good times and the bad times, the late nights, the boozing, the dancing into dawns, and all the great and not-so-great people I met and loved in those years.
I’ve certainly never taken the care of myself that I should have. On the contrary. I’ve done a lot of late nights without enough sleep and all that. But I’ve had fun. Whatever wrinkles are there, I’ve enjoyed getting them.
