You could pray all you want that you have a massive stroke while you're working and die, but possibly that won't happen, and you'll be in this bed, and somebody's going to have to clean you up.

My life is so boring that your brains are going to melt and come out of your eyes.

Even under the best of circumstances - in twenty-first century America at least - caring for elderly parents ain't no place for sissies.

I always imagined my little cartoons on plates for some reason.

As I would soon learn myself, cleaning up what a parent leaves behind stirs up dust, both literal and metaphorical. It dredges up memories. You feel like you're a kid again, poking around in your parents' closet, only this time there's no chance of getting in trouble, so you don't have to be so sure that everything gets put back exactly where it was before you did your poking around. Still, you hope to find something, or maybe you fear finding something, that will completely change your conception of the parent you thought you knew.

I like being able to go grocery shopping and not feel that Im fighting a thousand people.

I think maybe to survive, I mean to just get through the day - I'm not saying that everything is hilariously funny.