What is an idea made of? Of future, past and also meanwhile.
The happy ending is hardly important, though we may be glad its there. The real joy is knowing that if you felt the trouble in the story, your kingdom isnt dead.
People think that whatever I put into strips has happened to me in my life.
As I enter the small intestine I get squeezed by muscles. Its dark and the walls look like slimey crushed velvet theres pancreas juice on me help me I am disintigrating.
You know that great car-stomach feeling when you fly over a hump? That was my whole body.
The minute you understand racism, you’re responsible for being racist. It’s like eating from the tree of knowledge.
When you think about it, giving up your real personality is a small price to pay for the richness of living happily ever after with an actual man!
You’ll never call him Fifi again.
Flies die in so many lonely places. -Roberta Rohbeson.
A man who has been dead for a week in a hot trailer looks more like a man than you would first expect.
This ability to exist in pieces is what some adults call resilience. And I suppose in some way it is a kind of resilience, a horrible resilience that makes adults believe children forget trauma.
If I could only turn the etch-a-sketch of my life upside down.
The thing I call ‘my mind’ seems to be kind of like a landlord that doesn’t really know its tenants.
Dear Anyone Who Finds This, Do not blame the drugs.
It is true that I am a person with black pockets of evil and hatred in my heart. There are underground places inside of me.
I listen like mad to any conversation taking place next to me just trying to hear why this is funny. Women’s restrooms are especially great. I wash my hands twice waiting for people to come in and start talking.
I do dumb stuff, like playing my favorite dumb Barry White song and lip-synching into the mirror so it looks like his voice is coming out of my mouth.
Love will make a way out of no way.
Race and class are the easiest divisions. It’s very stupid.
I’ve gotten a lot of livid letters about the awfulness of my work. I’ve never known what to make of it. Why do people bother to write if they hate what I do?
But when the thing that is scaring you is already Jesus, who are you supposed to pray to?