Best 94 quotes of Kris Kidd on MyQuotes

A bag of bones can slip through small cracks in a crowd effortlessly.

And, to be honest, if weed is a gateway drug, then I really did hop the fence, but sometimes I can't help but miss the sticky-sweet warmth of a good old fashioned hot box.

In Los Angeles, everything is 100 percent organic, except the people.

Los Angeles has no seasons, so it's kind of hard to keep track of time here. The lines between spring, summer, fall, and winter all blur like my vision. I get stuck on repeat for different measures of eternity.

See, that's the thing about L.A.- When you've mastered the art of feeling lonely in a room full of people, that's when you know.

The idyllic mayhem of two cultures colliding just doesn't seem as funny anymore.

What sets us apart from some of the other options available would definitely be our unique combination of skills and craftsmanship with being a well-managed business. We control the number of projects we are involved with so that our clients remain a top priority throughout the duration of their project.

And confessions of love have always seemed out of place when you’re gasping for air, when you’re begging for pain, when you’re missing something, unable to change the channel.

And I guess at the end of the day, you’re just amazed that I can still stand, and I’m just amazed that I can stand still.

And then he's somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I'm somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust— about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.

Another piano falls, but this time it's me— or my lascivious loneliness, or my grab bag of mental instabilities and emotional shortcomings, or whatever.

Apathetic in my adolescence, my heart is fluorescent. It flickers like liquor store lights in the ghetto.

Beauty is biased, brainless. It says little to nothing about anybody as far as ethics are concerned, so why not monetize it? Give it some value, pin it with a price point. Otherwise, it’s worthless.

Coming down for the thousandth time, I'm perched on the precipice of a billion broken promises. I'm speeding through the intersections of my own broken heartstrings, blowing red lights and ignoring red flags. I'm thinking, 'history repeats itself.' I'm wondering why. The world outside is still happening also.

Cry wolf often enough and you eventually get eaten by the wolf, even if the wolf is you.

Do you think dogs enjoy fucking? Or is it something so primal, so intrinsically necessary that it just happens, just occurs? Do you think animals can fall in love? I let you fuck me from behind almost every single night, always wanting to be kissed, but still, I refuse to roll over.

Dripping neon like a nightmare, I feel the most alive at night. I talk too much, but there’s a lot unsaid. I’ve slept in a lot of beds.

Drugs may know how to numb a brain, but the past never forgets to resurface.

Every ghost has a story. Monsters are nothing without mythology.

Everywhere I go, I kind of half stumble, half stomp. If there’s a balcony within a hundred feet of me at any given time, I am on it— smoking a Marlboro light 100 and complaining about something.

February falls on top of me like a cartoon piano. I reek of champagne, come, and CK One.

I always wanted to be the boy who kiss with his eyes close.

I don’t have a problem, so much as I have a hard time stopping.

I drink Coke-zero while I score coke from an honors student in Huntington Beach.

I dye my jeans jet black once a week, but they never seem dark enough. I bleach my hair bright white twice a month but it never seems light enough. I drink two and a half bottles of champagne every night but I never seem drunk enough. And I know I’m not high enough until someone grabs my face to check my vision to see if I’m still responsive— And even then, I’m thinking to myself that I should probably do one more line, you know, just to be safe.

I gave them everything I had, and I guess it feels alright. I gave them my body, and they use it every night.

I haven’t felt the full weight of the world on my shoulders, and I haven’t experienced a fraction of the pain and embarrassment I’ve put out into this great big white world.

I just want to get away from me.

I know it sounds a bit trite, but I really do get everything I want now. They say life is a game, and I guess I might agree if the stakes were a little higher, but it’s just so easy to fall into a cycle. I get bored.

I like people with weak will and bad taste. It feels like anything is possible.

I like the way I feel when I’ve got nothing to lose.

I’ll be too drunk to fight when you ask why I prefer to hurt, so I’ll start hurling stupid phrases like I love you at your naked chest, but no matter what I try, they’ll all sound like cheap threats.

I’ll see my nakedness as an advantage, attempt use my body as leverage. That will work for a little while.

I love like a beaten child and I trust like an addict.

I love you. Let's get this over with.

I’m not bilingual, but I am fluent in therapists’ jargon.

In Los Angeles, everything is 100% organic, except the people.

I talk too much, but there's a lot unsaid. I've slept in a lot of beds.

In the mirror I stand, an injured deer in headlights, or maybe high beams, judging by the way my eyes water. I measure my wrists with my fingers, and I clutch at my rib cage, fingering it languidly, tracing the rise and fall of sharp bones until my heartbeat slows, and I dream of a faraway ocean.

In the soft light of morning, the sky outside turning light blue, my answer is always and still: “I’m fine.

I only hold on so I can let go.

I snort coke and I drink coconut water. I think of drug dealers like I think of my father - never really there when you want them to be.

I think it’s imperative that we continue confusing light with meaning. That’s how the human race evolves. Someone sees a light, names it God, goes toward it, goes up in flames. Same goes for moths. We’re all animals. There’s nothing revolutionary about evolution. The process itself relies solely on stupidity. We fuck up in the hopes that future fuckups will learn from us.

I think it’s pretty common to hold onto people, to bribe them with things, say, a body, in the hopes of keeping them from leaving you. I don’t think it’s uncommon to invert such behaviors, to become something unlovable, in an effort to speed up the process of the inevitable. Fighting is an instinct. So is running. Everybody knows how to destroy a good thing. It’s easy.

I think of drug dealers like I think of my father— never really there when you want them to be.

I think sometimes we gravitate toward broken people, not ’cause we want to fix them, but ’cause we want to fix ourselves. The line between selflessness and selfishness is thin and intangible. It’s imaginary. We can’t see it. People project their problems onto other people’s problems. It happens all the time. We see ourselves in each other. We can’t help it. It’s human nature.

It isn’t easy,” is easy to say and sometimes I think that the only thing we can do is say really easy things to each other.

It’s 2009, a Thursday night in September, and I’ve stopped looking for stars in the Los Angeles sky. I settle instead for the ones I see in my head when I go three or four days without eating. Same difference.

It’s so hard not to be fascinated by the broken, to remember that a boy with a sad smile and a pretty face is not the boy that you should fall in love with.

I've come to realize that hunger feels more like home than any tangible structure ever has, or probably ever will. I know now that creating absence is my way of coping with absence.