I'm still an obsessive personality, and I still think I'm right, and I still believe my literary balls hang far lower than nearly anyone else's alive.

When I see two women kissing, my only physical reaction is a strong desire to vomit in both of their mouths.

I certainly didn't emerge from prison regretting anything I ever wrote, nor did I feel remorse for my crime in the least.

I'm developing a mild rash at the idea of "plugging" anything, because it's not how I roll.

I don't regret any of my transgressions, because I believe I paid for them a million times over.

When I write, I strain with every wizened fibre of my weathered frame to analyze every possible angle of any given subject.

If I’d been talking about black trash, I might be lynched. If I was talking about white trash, I’d merely be another torchbearer in an ongoing national lynching.