I’ve always known that I was boring, which is why I smoke and criticize and in general follow the least-kind path through daily interactions. If you’ve got to make-believe, why not play the villain?

My God! Help me to escape! I’m beginning to realize that the last year of my life I must have spent not hung over but stupendously drunk. It is a relief, almost. I want to drink more and to care less and to sleep deeply. I want to talk with enthusiasm and to love wholly. Entirely, life is too cold and boring and unfair for the expectation to be sober human interaction. My back hurts like hell and my head hurts worse. Where, oh where, are the drinks and the drugs?

Good God!  All of these kids, they trundle along, topped off and wrapped up in scarves and thickly-soled booties. I’m worried; I’m wrapped up tighter and brighter than them.

“I scarcely believe in my own existence, most days,” she replied. “I mean, what could be sillier than a soul trapped in a marginally locomotive sack of meat?

Bravery, or selflessness, I guess.”