I was telling some people in my dressing room some of my other stories, my psychotic break, and blah, blah, blah, and no, they kind of look at you and it's just not what they wanted to hear.
People see me and they squeal like tropical birds or seals stranded on the beach.
I don't do acid anymore, so I travel instead.
He doesn't move his face when he talks. His eyes are like shark eyes. Dead.
You're not famous until you're a Pez dispenser.
My fear is that I will be crushed in an elevator and my mother will get hold of my journals from my adolescence.