Of course, the diary helps me as well. 'That wasn't your position on July 7, 1991,' I'll remind Hugh an hour after we've had a fight. I'd have loved to rebut him sooner, but it takes awhile to look these things up.

Do I exaggerate? Boy, do I, and I'd do it more if I could get away with it.

All I do is lie, and that has made me immune to compliments.

At first, writing for The New Yorker was very scary to me. I couldn't imagine anything that I would write in that typeface.

States vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don't want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don't want to marry a homosexual, then don't. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor's options? It's like voting whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas.

Most people, or at least most of the people that I've come into contact with, would like to be written about.

It make one's mouth hurt to speak with such forced merriment.