My imagination is more tweaked by imagining the lives of the people who were there before us. I don't need to give myself the willies. I'm quite good at that - I can freak myself out wherever I am.

I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.

Friends see most of each other’s flaws. Spouses see every awful last bit.

Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.

The face you give the world tells the world how to treat you.

Love makes you want to be a better man. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.

My mother had always told her kids: if you're about to do something, and you want to know if it's a bad idea, imagine seeing it printed in the paper for all the world to see.

I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow, washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

Sleep is like a cat: It only comes to you if you ignore it.

Ironic people always dissolve when confronted with earnestness, it's their kryptonite

I would choose to live a century in a dark room instead of hanging out with fake friends.

If you are an angle, all you can give is boredom.

I need my sleep. I need about eight hours a day, and about ten at night.

One common desire that every human being has is to love and be loved. At the end of our lives, it's how we measure our lives.

I could have stayed home and been kept by my wife.

Just so you know, when they say "Once upon a time” . . . they’re lying

Offer your art up to the whole world, not just an elite few.

First of all, all writing includes some part of the self. The relationship of the self and the other exists in writing, whether autobiographical or novel. There is a self and an other.

Ric Flair, the Slim Whitman of Pro-Wrestling.

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible.