I found myself jealous of the people who wrote the books. They were dead and they were still taking up my time. Who did they think they were?

Every tounge bit had another word to say.

Sometimes I wish I had an easy answer for why I'm depressed.

I had hurt her feelings, I found out later; I didn’t know I had that power.

You shouldn't be able to be alive and you are. You want to trade?

I've had good moments scattered since then, times when I thought I was better, but that was the last day I felt triumphant.

They always said on TV you could do anything you wanted, but here I was trying to do something and it wasn't working. I would never be able to do it.