There have to be more important things going on in the world than my past.

I don't sleep. I wait. I sleep in cars and on couches. I sleep when I can, but when I can't sleep, I just don't, so I figure there's a higher calling keeping me on point that night.

The paramedic called the press and sold me like a loaf of bread. This was news, and he wanted to be the one to report it.

People say you have to work on your resentments. Yeah, no, I'm gonna hang onto them and they're gonna fuel my attack.

People can't figure me out; they can't process me. I don't expect them to. You can't process me with a normal brain.

There was this one time in Vegas when I took four Victoria's Secret models and did one gram off each of their bodies within, like, 45 minutes. I declared myself King of Vegas and decided to remodel my hotel room with my bare hands to resemble King Louis XIV's bedroom at Versailles. Knocked down two entire walls, and later had four knuckle surgeries. Still wasn't as high as Rob Ford.

I think my passion is misinterpreted as anger sometimes. And I don't think people are ready for the message that I'm delivering, and delivering with a sense of violent love.