You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be.

Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don't really need.

To some of us, the nights are too long. To some, the days.

I figure if Eve could get us into this mess, I could get us out. After all, God really likes to see a go-getter.

Jump way back to one time, Evie and me did this fashion shoot in a junk yard, in a slaughterhouse, in a mortuary. We'd go anywhere to look good by comparison, and what I realize is mostly what I hate about Evie is the fact that she's so vain and stupid and needy. But what I hate most is how she's just like me. What I really hate is me so I hate pretty much everybody.

I take pens and I write on the inside of my arm. When I'm with people and somebody says a really fascinating anecdote, or fact, or phrase, I'll write it on the inside of my arm. At the end of the day, I'll take the very best things that are on my arm and I'll copy them into a notebook that I always carry and only when the weather is absolutely terrible will I really key the very best of that notebook into the computer. At that point, it's all sort of censored twice - only the best things go from the arm to the book and only the best things go from the book to the computer.

There's a terrible dark joy when the only person who knows all your secrets is finally dead.