For The Most Part My Friends Can

My Stories Tend To Bring People From Isolation Into Community - With At Least One Other Person, Usually With A Whole Community Of People - So That They Find Themselves Accepted Back By A World That They Kind Of Fled From.

People Have To Deal With Their Issues Together; They Have To Expose Themselves And Kind Of Exhaust Themselves.

Most People Would Never Admit It, But They'd Been Bitching Since They Were Born. As Soon As Their Head Popped Out Into That Bright Delivery-room Light, Nothing Had Been Right. Nothing Had Been As Comfortable Or Felt So Good. Just The Effort It Took To Keep Your Stupid Physical Body Alive, Just Finding Food And Cooking It And Dishwashing, The Keeping Warm And Bathing And Sleeping, The Walking And Bowel Movements And Ingrown Hairs, It Was All Getting To Be Too Much Work.

What I Mean Is Sometimes, For An Artist, Chronic Pain Can Be A Gift.

I Hate How I Don't Feel Real Enough Unless People Are Watching.