I don't think there is a right or wrong anymore. Only horrible and not-quite-so-horrible.

I've always had high ambitions and aspirations.

What was the point of even having a conversation when words couldn't be trusted?

In my early writing, all of my characters were exactly the same person. They all spoke the same, made the same types of jokes, reacted the same, etc. I think they were all just me in disguise.

Thomas hated the people who'd taken this poor, innocent kid form his family. He hated them with a passion he didn't know a human could feel. He wanted them dead, tortured, even. He wanted Chuck to be happy. But happiness had been ripped form their lives. Love had been ripped from their lives.

He turned to look just in time to see the rain start falling out as if the storm had finally decided to weep with shame for what it had done to them.

You’re disgusting when you eat,” Chuck said, sitting on the bench next to him. “It’s like watching a starving pig eat his own klunk.