My oldest brother was stabbed thirty to forty times and strangled to death with his own belt when I was eight years old. Much of my life has been pockmarked with violence. So I had a natural interest in the topic, along with a strong home-field advantage.

You have to be careful because those feelings and bitterness can take over and consume in a bad way.

In contrast to how my father treated me, I won't hit him, I won't call him evil, I'll give him affection, and I'll pay attention to him.

The idea that the reader is important enough to me that I'd tailor my words to either please or offend them always seems amusingly alien to me.

The criticism that has most consistently bothered me is the allegation that I'm a schlockmeister whose only objective is to shock people.

My crazy parents and those crazy Catholic nuns didn't do a good job of forcing me to keep the Ten Commandments, but they kept me forever fixated on the very idea of a taboo.

Hatred is the air I breathe. It permeates every cell in my body.