Via DK Holm, from a book I am suddenly pretty excited to read:
"Just living," said Barbara as we lay in bed that night, "just rotten old living, I've always hated that, it makes me want to puke. Kids, school, smells, Dad working for the council, regular meals, telly in the evening—who needs it? Where's your time for living gone? Well, it's gone, but by the time you realize it you're nothing but a worn-out knitting and washing machine. Then when it's too late and you're fifty and you've got the menopause, you take off your woolly one night and see there's fuck-all left of you except a pair of flabby old tits that no one wants to know about and bulges all over. Even your kids don't want to know you by then; they're grown up, swinging, they've got their own thing going. As for Dad, he's ogling the teenage slag down at the boozer, drinking up, getting all ready to make a scene when he comes in because he feels cheated—of course he feels cheated, the silly old bastard."
--Derek Raymond, He Died with His Eyes Open