For Many Years, I Tried To Make

There's No Such Thing As An Ex-junkie.

Most Poets Are Elitist Dregs More Concerned With Proving Their Skill With A Dictionary Than Communicating Ideas With Impact.

Every Year, August Lashes Out In Volcanic Fury, Rising With The Din Of Morning Traffic, Its Great Metallic Wings Smashing Against The Ground, Heating The Air With Ever-increasing Intensity.

I Like The Sound Of My Voice, Doesn't Mean It's Any Good But I Like It. The Joke Is That "all Good Singers Like The Sound Of Their Own Voice" So We'll Go With That.

If I Was A Woman These Days, I'd Be Killing Motherfuckers. My Handgun Would Never Cool And My Hands Would Be Covered In Testicular Blood. I Would Have A Horrible Reputation With A Lot Of Men Because I Would Be Calling Them On Their Weak Bullshit Left And Right.