I'll never suppress my identity -- that's like filing away your fingerprints so the money can slide into your pockets easier.

Life's too short to cavort with fork-tongued carnivores.

The harder you work, the more you produce, the more you create, the more you will be rejected. By people who never created shit.

The best thing about Art is that the people who create it live forever.

Conformity runs rampant through everyday life, and people want to read about characters that deviate from societal norms.

i Create. I don't "Need".Meaning: I don't need advice or criticism. Unless you're offering money, weed, or whiskey save it. Thanks.

Guns give Evil a means to expression.

I've done some stupid things I regret, but I've managed to keep my integrity. Which is important because integrity is fragile. Break it once and it's gone forever.

The mainstream media in America has become an insidious device of ignorance. They not only shape the story, but now participate. For what?

Life can be tough and harsh at times. That's what makes it great. Every day is a celebration of survival.

Grammar perfect books are for Ivy Leaguers in Ivory Towers. My book is a sandcastle built on the beach of usefullness.

George W. Bush will have to come to the UN and admit that he was wrong.

There is a segment of the American population that has been excluded from the national myth, and that should be redressed.

Ambition drives you on, ability certainly helps, but the fickle finger of fate and luck are great things.

Heroism--that is the disposition of a man who aspires to a goal compared to which he himself is wholly insignificant. Heroism is the good will to self-destruction.

If most men and women were forced to rely upon physical charm to attract lovers, their sexual lives would be not only meager but in a youth-worshiping country like America painfully brief.

In conclusion, I submit that, far from science having buried God, not only do the results of science point towards his existence, but the scientific enterprise itself is validated by his existence.

Leo,” Hazel gasped, “I can’t—my arms—” “Hazel,” he said. “Do you trust me?” “No!” “Me neither,” Leo admitted.

Much tongue and much judgment seldom go together.

Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of complaint on which he dwells in his moments of dejection.