I want to be harder to reach, not easier.

A psychiatrist once told me early in treatment, "Stop trying to make me like you," and what a sobering and welcome smack in the face that statement was. Yet somehow, every day of my life is still a campaign for popularity, or better yet, a crowded funeral.

It was a mystery to me. To that awful black-and-white farm, with that aunt who was dressed badly, with smelly farm animals around when she could live with winged monkeys and magic shoes and gay lions. I didn't get it.

How come there's no terrorism with humor, which is a great way to humiliate your enemy? It's a great time for that.

I have no interest in cars. I have a plain, used Buick. I could run over 10 people, and you wouldn't be able to describe my car.

Wouldn't you rather your kid be a drug dealer than a drug addict?

And I seek people who break rules with happiness — and not bringing pain to themselves.