Thought for the day.

Ursula moving in here with us has proved to be a bonus in all kinds of ways. One particularly heartening thing, of course, is that she is fucked up, clearly very fucked up indeed, much much more fucked up than I am for instance, possibly (who knows?) totally fucked up for ever, decisively fucked up for good; no matter how fucked up I get, she will always be that little bit more fucked up than I am: it is a virtual certainty that I will never be able to get quite as fucked up as she is fucked up already. This is good. Ursula is, in addition, fucked up in a way radically at odds with the way in which I am fucked up - my face is fucked up, my body is fucked up, my hair is fucked up, my cock is fucked up, my family is all fucked up. Nothing observable about Ursula, on the other hand, is in the slightest bit fucked up: looks, ability, background, advantages - all this, on the contrary, notably unfucked up. An yet Ursula, Ursula Riding, my foster sister is fucked up. She is fucked up. This is also good.

From Success, by Martin Amis.