The candle flame is too hot. It flickers and dances in the over-warm breeze, a breeze that brings no respite from the heat. Soft gossamer wings flutter to and fro in the dark, sprinkling dusty scaled in the circle of light. I'm struggling to resist, but I'm drawn. And then it's to bright, and I am flying too close to the sun, dazzled by the light, fried and melting from the heat, weary in my endeavers to stay airborn. I am so warm. The heat... It's stiffling, overpowering. It wakes me.

Don't get your panties in such a twist... and give me back mine.

Once you're in charge of your job, your house, your children, getting the food on the table, doing all of this, all of the time, it'd be nice for someone else to be in charge for a bit maybe.

The best person to write for is yourself—and what better place to start than in a journal.

There's a very fine line between pleasure and pain. They are two sides of the same coin, one not existing without the other.

I think virgins are far more interesting to write about. If we've been around the block a few times, we know what to expect. Not so with virgins.

I'm not a great writer.