Stephenie Meyer: Her vampires are sparkly, which I think we can all agree is wrong.

He always had a problem with the purity of others. Never his own.

One day the good times had to keep on rolling, and all of life's horseshit would turn to circuses.

I've seen more intelligence in the crotch lice of harem whores.

And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.

There's a fine edge to new grief, it severs nerves, disconnects reality--there's mercy in a sharp blade. Only with time, as the edge wears, does the real ache begin.

If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.