There was a time when I liked a good riot. Put on some heavy old street clothes that could stand a bit of sidewalk-scraping, infect myself with something good and contagious, then go out and stamp on some cops. It was great, being nine years old.

You're miserable, edgy and tired. You're in the perfect mood for journalism.

Read comics. All comics. And then cut them open to steal their power.

By four o'clock, I've discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead.

Journalism is just a gun. It’s only got one bullet in it, but if you aim right, that’s all you need. Aim it right, and you can blow a kneecap off the world.

That means that the universe is two-dimensional. Matter, energy, time, you, me and the floor are holograms.

good morning sinners. vampiric red bull intake in pub smoking compound commenced. day of heavy brain-fingering ahead.