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My parents hated me. all i ever heard was, "why can't you be like your cousin shelia? why can't you be like your cousin shelia?" shelia had died at birth.

-Joan Rivers

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My Parents Hated Me. All I Ever

Joan Rivers

My parents hated me. all i ever heard was, "why can't you be like your cousin shelia? why can't you be like your cousin shelia?" shelia had died at birth.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"my parents hated me. all i ever heard was, &quot;why can&amp;#039;t you be like your cousin shelia? why can&amp;#039;t you be like your cousin shelia?&quot; shelia had died at birth."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Joan Rivers</footer>
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Topic

Cousin Parenting Motherhood

More From Joan Rivers

We all know of course, that we should never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever fiddle around in any way with electrical equipment. never.

I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. i hated the sunsets of whatever colour, i hated its beauty and its magic and the secret i would never know. i hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. above all i hated her. for she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. she had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what i had lost before i found it.

I hated sports. i hated sports, and i hated people who played them, and i hated people who watched them, and i hated people who didn't hate people who watched or played them.

A manhattan lawyer who describes himself as "america`s leading expert on the militia movement" writes that he hugged his three-year-old kid the night of the oklahoma city bombing. he told junior that it happened "because they hated too much" for now, let`s accept the premise that one hundred sixty-eight humans died in oklahoma city because people "hated too much" now answer these questions if you would be so kind: did a federal sniper shoot vicki weaver in the face because he hated too much? did our government conduct the tuskegee with syphilis on black soldiers because it hated too much?

It was not enough to be the last guy she kissed. i wanted to be the last one she loved. and i knew i wasn’t. i knew it, and i hated her for it. i hated her for not caring about me. i hated her for leaving that night, and i hated myself , too, not only because i let her go but because if i had been enough for her, she wouldn’t have even wanted to leave. she would have just lain with me and talked and cried, and i would have listened and kissed at her tears as they pooled in her eyes.

The nature of the labyrinth, i scribbled into my spiral notebook, and the way out of it. this teacher rocked. i hated discussion classes. i hated talking, and i hated listening to everyone else stumble on their words and try to phrase things in the vaguest possible way so they wouldn't sound dumb, and i hated how it was all just a game of trying to figure out what the teacher wanted to hear and then saying it. i'm in class, so teach me.

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My best times are midnight to six actually. i'll leaf through my notebooks and if something catches my eye and i feel like i want to transfer it from the notebook to the page, i do, and then comes this very strange process which is difficult to describe in that i'll write until i get stuck or i can't go any further or i'm boring myself or whatever and then i might go to another poem.

You may want to keep a commonplace book which is a notebook where you can copy parts of books you think are in code, or take notes on a series of events you may have observed that are suspicious, unfortunate, or very dull. keep your commonplace book in a safe place, such as underneath your bed, or at a nearby dairy.

For most of my adult life, i have been an emotional hit-and- run driver--that is, a reporter. i made people like me, trust me, open their hearts and their minds to me, and cry and bleed on to the pages of my neat little notebooks, and then i went back to a safe place and made a story out of it.

The instinct to produce great work doesn't require a fancy notebook.

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