I can become someone else, not out of pressure and desperation, but merely because a new life sounds fun or interesting or joyful.

The girl is infectious human waste, and she's confused and afraid to commit to the wrong thing and so she won't commit to anything.

Maybe it's just a daughter's job to piss off her mother.

Nothing shows you the straight line from here to death like a list.

We live and we die and anything else is just a delusion.

Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history’s in a strand of your hair. Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document. The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent. The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand.

Love and life belongs to great risk.