I sit here drunk now. I am a series of small victories and large defeats and I am as amazed as any other that I have gotten from there to here without committing murder or being murdered; without having ended up in the madhouse. as I drink alone again tonight my soul despite all the past agony thanks all the gods who were not there for me then.

she’s mad, but she’s magic.

American women drove hard bargains and the ended up looking the worst for it. The few natural American women left were mostly in Texas and Louisiana.

I read my books at night, like that, under the quilt with the overheated reading lamp. Reading all those good lines while suffocating. It was magic.

my beerdrunk soul is sadder than all the dead christmas trees of the world.

They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work.

Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same.