What I really hated, of course, was my mind. There must have been an off switch somewhere, but I was damned if I could find it.

I hoped our lives would continue this way forever, but inevitably the past came knocking. Not the good kind that was collectible but the bad kind that had arthritis.

I was just struggling with my inner vachette and pondering the depths of my own inhumanity.

The only bright spot in the entire evening was the presence of Kevin "Tubby" Matchwell, the eleven-year-old porker who tackled the role of Santa with a beguiling authenticity. The false beard tended to muffle his speech, but they could hear his chafing thighs all the way to the North Pole.

Given enough time, I guess anything can look good. All it has to do is survive.

I started writing when I was twenty, and my first book came out seventeen years later.

I always think it's a good policy to like the people who like you.