By The Time You're Thirty,

My Writing Process Isn't A Very Organized Thing. The Actual Writing Part Is A Tiny Part Of My Life. I Often Write In Public. I Bring My Laptop Or Write Freehand In Notebooks. Then, I'll Read Through Them While I Exercise Or Walk The Dog. The Very Last Thing I Do Is The Sitting Alone At The Computer Part.

We'll Never Be As Young As We Are Tonight.

Nothing Is Static. Even The Mona Lisa Is Falling Apart. Since Fight Club, I Can Wiggle Half The Teeth In My Jaw. Maybe Self-improvement Isn't The Answer. Maybe Self-destruction Is The Answer.

For The First Time In Longer Than I Can Remember, I Feel Peaceful. Not Happy. Not Sad. Not Anxious. Not Horny. Just All The Higher Parts Of My Brain Closing Up Shop. The Cerebral Cortex. The Cerebellum. That's Where My Problem Is. I'm Now Simplifying Myself. Somewhere Balanced In The Perfect Middle Between Happiness And Sadness. Because Sponges Never Have A Bad Day.

Telling Some Stories, Miss Leroy Says, Is Committing Suicide.