How do you write when you're not miserable? The solution, of course, is to make yourself miserable about not writing.

For me there was never a lot of glamor involved in being a junkie, it was about trying to hide the puke and bloodstains on my shirt.

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.

You can't really compare hells. But I suppose the hell of being strung out on another person's addictive behavior is its own special thing.

All my life I'd gone for women who were a little off.

You need an entire drama to construct your life around to avoid living it.

Heroin spread that soft blanket over everything. But once the blanket was ripped off, it took a layer of skin with it, leaving nothing but nerve ends screaming in the breeze.