I mean, most fun things are bad for you in one way or another.

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

There are women in makeup and hair and wardrobe, but not in camera, not in sound, you know, and not in special effects. It's all men.

I have a second dog, too, mainly for security.

I was born imagining myself with an apron on, with pies cooling on the window sill and babies crying upstairs. I thought that all that stuff would somehow anchor me to the planet, that it was the weight I needed to keep from just flying off into space.

He doesn't move his face when he talks. His eyes are like shark eyes. Dead.

I am mentally ill. I can say that. I am not ashamed of that. I survived that, I'm still surviving it, but bring it on. Better me than you.