I'd never been turned on by the Ken doll—even before I looked down his pants and saw what was missing.

I contemplate the notion that maybe regrets are a process of accumulation of time, as unavoidable as a closet full of clothes and more bags of them in the attic. Is accumulated baggage what makes people get old? If so, they need to clean out their fecking attics, send the stuff to consignment shops and remember how to walk around naked like kids, little bellies sticking out, always ready for a good laugh.

Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It's hard enough to communicate when you're telling the truth.

Irony, perfect definition: that for which I want to possess it, I would no longer want once I possessed it.

Revenge. They took too much. You give up and die, or learn how to take back.

Fear and doubt are major stampeders.

I'm a bartender. I like recipes. They're concretes. Was the drink recipe for seduction one shot charm and two shots self-deception, shaken, not stirred?