When I was seven, I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with my mom. When Jack Nicholson was strapped to the table getting electroshock treatment, my mom burst into tears. She said it reminded her of her life, and I was stunned, because I didn't know my mom had been nominated for an Oscar.

All of Dad's relationships ended exactly the same: subpoena, beep of a moving van backing up the driveway, pile of his clothes burning on the front lawn.

Everybody I've ever met was destroyed by a member of the opposite sex early on and that damage you took into every relationship after that, everybody. Every woman in here got intimidated by a guy, pushed around too much, now you're new boyfriend tickles you a little too hard, boom restraining order. Every guy here had a woman sleep with his best friend, now your new girlfriend hugs your cousin a little long, boom car bomb.

I don't fail. I succeed at finding out what doesn't work.

I got divorced from my wife on June 6, 2006. Yeah, 6-6-06, which coincidentally, was when my wife turned into a demon spawned from Satan's anus. But for legal reasons, I have to call her, Kate.

My random acts of violence weren't random. They were premeditated.

Born free. Taxed to death.