What doesn't kill us makes us funnier.

Why do we have such a finite capacity for pleasure but an infinite one for pain?

I've kind of realized life is meant to be tough and everybody is in psychic and spiritual discomfort of some sort and has a burden to carry. I've realized I'm not special.

My truth is that what doesn't kill you makes you weaker rather than stronger, although it makes you wiser.

I love Prada. Not so much the clothes, which are for malnourished thirteen-year-olds, but I covet, with covety covetousness, the shoes and handbags. Like, I LOVE them. If I was given a choice between world peace and a Prada handbag, I'd dither. (I'm not proud of this, I'm only saying.)

I rang my mother to thank her for giving birth to me and she said, "What choice had I? You were in there, how else were you going to get out?

I'd rather dig a ditch than go to a dinner party with people I don't know.