We Have Lived Too Long. The Great

She Tortured Everybody Around Her, But Only Because She Was More Tortured Than Anyone.

We're Wired To Expect The World To Be Brighter And More Meaningful And More Obviously Interesting Than It Actually Is. And When We Realize That It Isn't, We Start Looking Around For The Real World.

I Always Hated Those Fantasy Books Where, At The End, All The Kids Had To Go Home. At The End Of A Narnia Book, You Always Got Shown The Door. Same With The Wizard Of Oz And The Phantom Tollbooth. You Get Kicked Out Of Your Magic Land. It's Like, "by The Way, Here's Your Next Surprise: You Get To Go Home!" And The Kids Are All Like, "yay, We Get To Go Home!" I Never Bought That. Did Anybody Buy That?

The Problem With Growing Up Is That Once You're Grown Up, The People Who Aren't Grown Up Aren't Fun Anymore.

She Still Had Her Bad Days, No Question, When The Black Dog Of Depression Sniffed Her Out And Settled Its Crushing Weight On Her Chest And Breathed Its Pungent Dog Breath In Her Face. On Those Days She Called In Sick To The It Shop Where, Most Days, She Untangled Tangled Networks For A Song. On Those Days She Pulled Down The Shades And Ran Dark For Twelve Or Twenty-four Or Seventy-two Hours, However Long It Took For The Black Dog To Go On Home To Its Dark Master.