That's The Thing About Being A Victim;

I Sort Of Play Golf Because A Lot Of My Friends Are Into It, But I'm Awful - My Handicap Is About Six Or Seven Thousand.

Grief, I Swear To God, Doesn't Live In The Heart. It Lives In The Senses. And Sometimes, All I Want To Do Is Cut Off My Nose So I Can't Smell Her, Hack My Fingers Off At The Joint.

My Daughter Squealed Again And Both Bubba And I Winced. It’s Not An Attractive Sound, That. It’s High-pitched And It Enters Your Ear Canals Like Hot Glass. No Matter How Much I Love My Daughter, I Will Never Love Her Squealing. Or Maybe I Will. Maybe I Do. Driving Down 93, I Realized Once And For All, That I Love The Things That Chafe. The Things That Fill Me With Stress So Total I Can’t Remember When A Block Of It Didn’t Rest On Top Of My Heart. I Love What, If Broken, Can’t Be Repaired. What, If Lost Can’t Be Replaced. I Love My Burdens.

Charm Was The Luxury Of Those Who Still Believed In The Essential Rightness Of Things. In Purity And Picket Fences.

I Have A Lot Of Rage About Things That Didn't Happen To Me, Tied Up With Watching An Immigrant, Working-class Father Struggle To Make His Way Through The World - And Seeing How Society Was Modeled To Keep Him In His Place.