I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?

Look at the stupid, poor people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people, look at their dead baby. It's death porn for the masses.

It's easier to floss with barbed wire than admit you like someone in middle school.

Melancholy held me hostage, and the bees built a hive of sadness in my soul.

Each reader has to find her or his own message within a book.

It was like looking at a knot, knowing it was a knot, but not knowing how to untie it. I had no map for this life.

I open a paperclip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this. A whimper, a peep? I draw little window cracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting.