I don't usually read my reviews. I've noticed older reviewers are much more bothered by the plot complications. Younger reviews don't seem to be bothered by the complications at all.

I used to have a really sharp memory. And its loss has proven destabilizing from an identity perspective.

Every once in a while when I get a migraine, I like to think, "Who hates me today?"

I wish somebody knew whether or not I'm Jewish.

My husband is always accusing me of being a context-free individual. He asks something and he has no idea where it came from or what it related to. I have to supply him with way more supplementary information than I ever have to supply my female friends.

Maybe the body is taking responsibility where the mind is not. It's scrapbooking for us.

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in. In other words: Home has exceedingly low standards.