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?

I just want to not be me.

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

Every tounge bit had another word to say.

Is that the truth, Jimmy?" I ask without looking at him. "It's the truth and it come to ya!" I smile.

I feel dead, wasted, awful, broken and useless. It's not the kind of feeling you forget.

I don't know how I can be so ambitious and so lazy at the same time.