My life is like a lone, forgotten Q-Tip in the second-to-last drawer.

My father was a joyous, joyous spirit, he really was. He was a hedonist, that was just - he enjoyed life, thrust up to the elbows with it. He was a terrible father. I don't know that he was parented that well.

Waiting, done at really high speeds, will frequently look like something else.

No, as it turns out, I really like being congratulated on my weight loss. I like it so much, it's tragic.

My mother had an amazing life, and she's someone to admire.

Everything is negotiable. Whether or not the negotiation is easy is another thing.

From here on out, there's just reality. I think that's what maturity is: a stoic response to endless reality. But then, what do I know?