My dad's all I've ever had. When I was 3 and 4, my mom used to take me to bars. I understand why now - babysitters cost beer, beer and-a-half an hour.

I gave my father a heart attack. It was a practical joke. Come on, you push a guy's face in a cake he's got to clean it off. You hit a guy with a water balloon, he's got to dry off. Guy's in the hospital, you get his testicles shaved, he scratches and bleeds for a week... it's funny... you're not supposed to have a heart attack, it kills the joke.

My mom was a manic depressive schizophrenic who, after a year in prison, went home and shot herself. My sister, Kirsten, an amazing poet, who was raised by this woman, and was dating a guy who broke up with her for the fourth time in three weeks. And one day, she came to his house, got a gun, and blew her brains out all over his headboard. I just went through a divorce, five years in court and cost me $2 million dollars. If anyone, by law, should be forced to take antidepressants it's me... But instead, I choose to be an antidepressant. And you can take me with alcohol.

Normal people, want to be accepted. Screwed up people, want to be accepted. It's one of the few things we have in common. My whole life, all I ever wanted was my dad to pat me on the top of the head and go, Who's a good boy ? Who's a good boy? But, instead, all he ever did was wipe peanut butter on the end of my nose and laugh while I tried to lick it off.

The only thing that ever made me want to be a wife-beater is being called one. Your honor, can I have five minutes to make her not a liar, please?

When you screw up, you got to pay the price. Shoot up a supermarket, you go to jail. Ride a motorcycle without a helmet, permanent brain damage and in California you're getting a ticket. Too chatty on a date with my dad, well, he'll push you in front of a cross town bus. Of course, you know, I'm speaking metaphorically. My dad will push you in front of any bus.

Normal people, who grow up with compassion, never amount to anything. They're the ones who end up gluing those little dots on the highway. Or, putting glue on the dots for the guy who glues dots on the highway. Screwed up people, who weren't coddled or raised with compassion, we get stuff done. Sure, we feel a little alone and abandoned, but, we're... very... happy. Why can't you love me, daddy?