In a city this size, every year, hundreds of husbands walk away. Kids leave home. Wives escape. People disappear.

I can manage my own pain. I can drink. I can go to the doctor and get a prescription. I can exercise. I can write a story about it. I've done it a million times! But I don't want to see the people I love tortured and suffering.

You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.

Where every day doesn't start with an alarm clock and end with the television.

Hey, you created me! I didn't create some loser alter-ego to make myself feel better. Take some responsibility!

Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit.

I write compulsively. I've got so many ideas, and I love to do it so much, I can't not do it. I write the way some people do drugs.