In My Dream World Gay People In

I've Wasted A Lot Of Time Pretending To Be Interested In People Who Weren't Terribly Interesting.

And When Hugh Would Grow Progressively Gandhi On Me, I'd Remind Him That These Were Pests---disease Carriers Who Feasted Upon The Dead And Then Came Indoors To Dance Upon Our Silverware.

She's Afraid To Tell Me Anything Important, Knowing I'll Only Turn Around And Write About It. In My Mind, I'm Like A Friendly Junkman, Building Things From The Little Pieces Of Scrap I Find Here And There, But My Family's Started To See Things Differently. Their Personal Lives Are The So-called Pieces Of Scrap I So Casually Pick Up, And They're Sick Of It. More And More Often Their Stories Begin With The Line "you Have To Swear You'll Never Repeat This." I Always Promise, But It's Generally Understood That My Word Means Nothing.

I Felt Uncomfortable Calling Myself A Writer Until I Started With 'the New Yorker,' And Then I Was Like, 'okay, Now You Can Call Yourself That.

Listen, You Might Want To Pack A Few Of Your Things Together Before Going To Bed. The Former Bishop Of Turkey Will Be Coming Tonight Along With Six To Eight Black Men. They Might Put Some Candy In Your Shoes, They Might Stuff You Into A Sack And Take You To Spain, Or They Might Just Pretend To Kick You. We Don't Know For Sure, But We Want You To Be Prepared." This Was The Reward For Living In The Netherlands. As A Child You Get To Hear This Story, And As An Adult You Get To Turn Around And Repeat It.