In my family, misery didn't just love company, it wanted hostages.

This is, I believe, what happens when people take their own lives. They're not killing themselves, they're killing the world. Either to spare it pain or to cause it some, depending.

There was a weird intimacy, sitting in a car together. Couples sat in cars. Cops and their partners. Strangers became unstrange, sharing a windshield view of the world.

All of us, at some point in life, choose our cliché.

There's no deodorant for desperation.

I always figured I myself would never be lucky enough to die, I'd just live on and on in this increasingly dreary spiral.

A waft of sweet hash drifted by, and I wanted to float after it like Wimpy levitating at the scent of a hamburger.