I just think some women aren't made to be mothers. And some women aren't made to be daughters.

Ah, well, being conflicted means you can live a shallow life without copping to be a shallow person.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.

There's no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink.

She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.

They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow, washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips.