I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

If you read someone else's diary, you get what you deserve.

People discuss their relationships all the time, but you can't. I don't think people realize how harmful that is, how it twists you up to hide who you are. It's not healthy, and the great gains that homosexuals have made in my lifetime, I think that we'll look back in twenty or thirty years and say, "I can't believe we ever made them go through that."

I've never made up events, but I've always been a big exaggerator. It's written on my humorist license that I'm allowed to do that.

I go to the movies at least five times a week, and after a while everything becomes a blur to me.

Weird doors open. People fall into things.

I am a person who feels guilty for crimes I have not committed, or have not committed in years. The police search the train station for a serial rapist and I cover my face with a newspaper, wondering if maybe I did it in my sleep. The last thing I stole was an eight-track tape, but to this day I'm unable to enter a store without feeling like a shoplifter. It's all the anxiety with none of the free stuff.