What worries me is, what if this guy is really the one for me and I just haven't had enough therapy yet for me to be comfortable with having found him.

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

I was born into big celebrity. It could only diminish.

I have a chemical imbalance that, in its most extreme state, will lead me to a mental hospital.

I like the community of acting better than the prison of writing. I like sets.

I rarely think about my childhood. It's a slippery thing I can't keep hold of for long - it slithers out of my grasp. And a lot of the time I remember what was missing instead of what was there. I am a chronicler of absence.

Happy is one of the many things I'm likely to be over the course of a day and certainly over the course of a lifetime. But I think if you have the expectation that you're going to be happy throughout your life--more to the point, if you have a need to be comfortable all the time--well, among other things, you have the makings of a classic drug addict or alcoholic.