Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.

I was trying to feel some kind of good-bye. I mean I’ve left schools and places I didn’t even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it. If you don’t you feel even worse.

When I really worry about something, I don’t just fool around. I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something. Only, I don’t go. I’m too worried to go. I don’t want to interrupt my worrying to go.

The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?

We’re freaks, that’s all. Those two bastards got us nice and early and made us into freaks with freakish standards, that’s all. We’re the tattooed lady, and we’re never going to have a minute’s peace, the rest of our lives, until everybody else is tattooed, too.

In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.

They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It's not so good, that way.