I Did A Lot Of Reading Of

There's Not Some Finite Amount Of Pain Inside Us. Our Bodies And Minds Just Keep Manufacturing More Of It.

After All, What Was Adult Life But One Moment Of Weakness Piled On Top Of Another? Most People Just Fell In Line Like Obedient Little Children, Doing Exactly What Society Expected Of Them At Any Given Moment, All The While Pretending That They’d Actually Made Some Sort Of Choice.

It Felt Good, The Whole Family Together On A Sunny Morning In A Wholesome Environment. If It Hadn't Been For The Warshiping God Part, He Would Have Happily Attended Church On A Regular Basis.

Nothing Beats Novel Writing Because It's Complete Expression Of You. You Just Control Everything. Not Even A Movie Director Has That Level Of Control.

She Told Her Therapist It Reminded Her Of Coming Home The Summer After Her Freshman Year At Rutgers, Stepping Back Into The Warm Bath Of Family And Friends, Loving It For A Week Or Two, And Then Feeling Trapped, Dying To Return To School, Missing Her Roommates And Her Cute New Boyfriend, The Classes And The Parties And The Giggly Talks Before Bed, Understanding For The First Time That That Was Her Real Life Now, That This, Despite Everything She'd Ever Loved About It, Was Finished For Good.