Real writers write because they love to write. They don't write for public acclaim.

Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.

Does it hurt very much to die? Well, sweetheart, yes, but it hurts a lot more to keep living.

Nothing feels as awful as pouring your heart out to some talk therapist, then realizing this so-called professional is actually vastly stupid and you've just professed your most secret secrets to some goon who's wearing one brown sock and one blue sock.

The ultimate joke was the idea that capitalism would eat its own feces in order to make money, that would make fun of itself if capitalism thought there was a buck in it.

...no way could I fall in love. I just couldn't go there yet. Settle for less. I didn't want to process through anything. I didn't want to pick up any pieces. Lower my expectations.

Anymore, no one's mind is their own.