I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can

And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.

Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?