If talking were aerobic, I’d be the thinnest person in the world.
Ambition is exhausting. It makes you friends with people for the wrong reasons, just like drugs.
Certainly there are people who like me, but then there are those who don’t know me who gossip about me. You can’t believe the things I’ve heard.
I don’t want to be thought of as a survivor because you have to continue getting involved in difficult situations to show off that particular gift, and I’m not interested in doing that anymore.
One of the great things to pretend is that you’re not only alright, you’re in great shape. Now to have that come true – I’ve actually gone on stage depressed and that’s worked its magic on me, ’cause if I can convince you that I’m alright, then maybe I can convince me.
My inner world seems largely to consist of three rotating emotions: embarrassment, rage, and tension. Sometimes I feel excited, but I think that’s just positive tension.
I think that the truth is a really stern taskmistress.
And when you’re young you want to fit in. Hell, I still want to fit in with certain humans, but as you get older you get a little more discriminating.
As we all know, there is no underwear in space.
Leia follows me like a vague smell.
You’re not famous until you’re a Pez dispenser.
I’m fond of kissing. It’s part of my job. God sent me down to kiss a lot of people.
I think of my body as a side effect of my mind. Like a thought I had once that manifested itself – Oops! Oh no! Manifested. Look at this. Now we have to buy clothes and everything.
I mean, that’s at least in part why I ingested chemical waste – it was a kind of desire to abbreviate myself. To present the CliffNotes of the emotional me, as opposed to the twelve-column read.
I found out when I did the Oprah Winfrey show that there was a cookie jar of me. So she gave it to me. I had no idea prior to that that it even existed.
I was street smart, but unfortunately the street was Rodeo Drive.
He doesn’t move his face when he talks. His eyes are like shark eyes. Dead.
Then I overdosed at 28, at which point I began to accept the bipolar diagnosis.
My life is like a lone, forgotten Q-Tip in the second-to-last drawer.
Sid said that drugs weren’t the problem, life was the problem. Drugs were the solution.