All I Have Going Is My Looks.

I Want To Remember It All, The Good Times And The Bad Times, The Late Nights, The Boozing, The Dancing Into Dawns, And All The Great And Not-so-great People I Met And Loved In Those Years.

For The Loot, Honey, For The Loot.

Don't Think For A Minute That Bad Publicity And Endless Criticism Don't Leave Their Claw Marks On Everyone Concerned. Your Friends Try To Cheer You Up By Saying Lightly, "i Suppose You Get Used To It, And Ignore It." You Try. You Try Damned Hard. But You Never Get Used To It. It Always Wounds And Hurts.

The Truth Is That The Only Time I'm Happy Is When I'm Doing Absolutely Nothing. I Don't Understand People Who Like To Work And Talk About It Like It Was Some Sort Of Goddamn Duty. Doing Nothing Feel Like Floating On Warm Water To Me. Delightful, Perfect.

Maybe, In The Final Analysis, They Saw Me As Something I Wasn't And I Tried To Turn Them Into Something They Could Never Be. I Loved Them All But Maybe I Never Understood Any Of Them. I Don't Think They Understood Me.