I'm a hypochondriac. Yesterday it was brain damage from the vodka the night before. Today, heart attack - my arm and chest started hurting at the same time.

Mostly singing was cathartic, writing was cathartic, therapeutic. I don't think I had a goal, particularly, to sing or put it out there for anybody.

How many people have a family grave in the backyard? I'm sure I'll end up there, or I'll shrink my head and put it in a glass box in the living room. I'll get more tourists to Graceland that way.

I was quite the spoiled brat. I have quite a temper, obviously inherited from my father, and I became very good at ordering everyone around. I was the princess; the staff were absolutely terrified of me.

I don't deal well with admiration if it's for something I haven't done. Other than exist.

I've never even been out of my BMI range. I'm 5-foot-3. If I gain five pounds, it shows.

If I'm alone too long I think too much, and I'm not interested in doing that. That won't lead anywhere good, I'm sure. If I'm busy I tend to stay out of trouble. An idle mind is the devil's playground.