I think that any time a person comes face-to-face with their own mortality - close enough to Death that they can smell its breath - they have a choice: 1) Fall to pieces; 2) Reassemble yourself and keep walking.

One of the greatest pleasures I get from my measly professional career is confusing people. "Wait - he beats women and seems like a Nazi, but he has impeccable grammar and keen reasoning skills and sings country music and can, from time to time, say or do something really funny?" It absolutely doesn't compute for them. I enjoy that immensely.

My hatred is a thousand times more powerful than all your good intentions.

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.

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

The leftist drive for control is insatiable.

I never want to think or write about the topic again when I'm finished with it.