There's Not Enough Of Me Left Over.

My Only Ritual Is To Just Sit Down And Write, Write Every Day.

Our Lives Are One Endless Stretch Of Misery Punctuated By Processed Fast Foods And The Occasional Crisis Or Amusing Curiosity.

I Once Read About A Guy Who Lost His Arms In A Fire. The Nurse Took Pity On Him And Gave Him A Hand Job. I Don't Even Get That.

I Suppose Home Is, For Me, More Of A State Of Mind. It's Really More Of About Being Where I Want To Be With People I Care About.

Nobody's Trying To Kill You, Deirdre. You're Killing Yourself.