Don't Make Light Of Any Man's Pain.

I've Been A Storyteller All My Life. When I Was In High School, I Used To Amuse Myself By Driving Through The Woods At Night And See How Long It Would Be Before I Scared The Pants Off My Friends - And If I Could Do It Before I Scared Myself.

A Second Floor Window Opened, And Kyle Stuck His Head And Shoulders Out So He Could Look Down At Us. “if You Two Are Finished Playing Cowboy And Indian Out There, Some Of Us Would Like To Get Their Beauty Sleep.” I Looked At Warren. “you Heard ‘um Kemo Sabe. Me Go To My Little Wigwam And Get ‘um Shut-eye.” “how Come You Always Get To Play The Indian?” Whined Warren, Deadpan. “cause She’s The Indian, White Boy,” Said Kyle.

Are We Going To Portland?" I Asked. "or Multnomah Falls?" He Smiled At Me. "go To Sleep." I Waited Three Seconds. "are We There Yet?" His Smile Widened, And The Last Of The Usual Tension Melted From His Face. For A Smile Like That, I'd...do Anything.

I Was Too Busy Fighting The River To Worry About Adjusting My Beliefs In Accordance To Reality.

Being A Martyr Is Highly Overrated.