From inside the Weiner tornado the whole world looks absurd.
People who hate you hate you for typing a few lame, creepy things into your laptop. People who admire you probably shouldn’t. Everyone is a menace, a fool or a jackass, like a mosquito. You’ve got ten-thousand mosquitoes swirling around you, and you loathe all of them, and you need them, and they think you’re a pervert, but you might be good for New York because of your ideas book, which isn’t bad.