I Think Perhaps All Of Us Go

People Hear That I Am A Horror Writer And They Think That I Must Be A Monster, But Actually I Have The Heart Of A Small Child - I Keep It In A Jar On My Desk.

A Foolish Man Tells A Woman To Stop Talking, But A Wise Man Tells Her That Her Mouth Is Extremely Beautiful When Her Lips Are Closed.

Then She Did See It There - Just A Face, Peering Through The Curtains, Hanging In Midair Like A Mask. A Head-scarf Concealed The Hair And The Glassy Eyes Stared Inhumanly, But It Wasn’t A Mask, It Couldn’t Be. The Skin Had Been Powdered Dead-white And Two Hectic Spots Of Rouge Centered On The Cheekbones. It Wasn’t A Mask. It Was The Face Of A Crazy Old Woman. Mary Started To Scream, And Then The Curtains Parted Further And A Hand Appeared, Holding A Butcher’s Knife. It Was The Knife That, A Moment Later, Cut Off Her Scream. And Her Head.

Friendship Is Like Peeing On Yourself: Everyone Can See It, But Only You Get The Warm Feeling That It Brings.

So I Had This Problem -- Work Or Starve. So I Thought I'd Combine The Two And Decided To Become A Writer.