I am fortunate to have been well paid for an almost pathological honesty.

Everything's plastic, we're all going to die sooner or later, so what does it matter.

I sit there in my bed staring at the wall, feeling happy, enjoying the way the wall looks, how pink and how white it is. Pink and white, as far as I’m concerned, have never looked quite so pink and white before.

That's what it's like in my head all the time, constant snow, constant weather patterns of all sorts - blizzards, cyclones.

Mental illness is so much more complicated than any pill that any mortal could invent

And she keeps saying, how can you do this to me? And i want to scream, what do you mean, how can I do this to you? Aren't we confusing our pronouns here? The question, really, is How could I do this to myself?

It's like Samson and Delilah: watch your back, because trouble could be the person you're sleeping with.