She thought I was...soulful, by which I think she means that I don't say much and I always look vaguely pissed off.

Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch.

Tuesday night I reorganized my record collection. I often do this at periods of emotional stress. There are some people who would find this a pretty dull way to spend an evening, but I'm not one of them. This is my life, and it's nice to be able to wade in it, immerse your arms in it, touch it.

So now what? What happens when words fail us?

The outward manifestations of an inner combustion are never very directed.

There were about seventy-nine squillion people in the world, and if you were very lucky, you would end up being loved by fifteen or twenty of them.

I guess I should have forgotten about it ages ago, but forgetting isn't something I'm very good at.