When you understand, that what you're telling is just a story. It isn't happening anymore. When you realize the story you're telling is just words, when you can just crumble up and throw your past in the trashcan, then we'll figure out who you're going to be.

We just had a near-life experience!

A minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.

I know that when a supersexy older girl with hips and breasts and nice hair wants to take off your glasses and to paint you a smoky eye she's merely trying to enroll you in a beauty contest she's already won. It's a kind of slummy, condescending gesture, like when rich people ask poor people where they summer. To me, this smacks of a blatant, insensitive "let them eat cake" type of chauvinism.

What I mean is sometimes, for an artist, chronic pain can be a gift.

Waiters will always pee in soup, people will always fall in love.

Have your adventures, make your mistakes, and choose your friends poorly -- all these make for great stories.