How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.

You know what lies are for.