Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

Look up at the stars and you're gone.

People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messed cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.

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.

The old rule about how a thing of beauty is a joy forever, in my experience, even the most beauteous thing is only a joy for about three hours, tops. After that, she'll want to tell you all about her childhood traumas. Part of meeting these jail girls is it's so sweet to look at your watch and know she'll be behind bars in half an hour.

Those who remember the past tend to get the story really screwed up.

Part of her doing suicide intervention is my caseworker has to mix me another gin and tonic.