I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.
In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.