When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

I'm the only one sitting alone, under the glowing neon sign which reads, "Complete and Total Loser, Not Quite Sane. Stay Away. Do Not Feed.

Used to be that my whole body was my canvas-hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms, thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.

I want to make a memorial for our turkey. Never has a bird been so tortured to provide such a lousy dinner.

I reach for funny books all the time to help me get through life.

There is nothing wrong with me. These are really sick people, sick that you can see.

Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!