Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God.

I Figure If Eve Could Get Us Into This Mess, I Could Get Us Out. After All, God Really Likes To See A Go-getter.

It's Easy To Cry When You Realize That Everyone You Love Will Reject You Or Die.

You're Doomed At Being You.

These Flowers Will Be Rotten In A Couple Hours. Birds Will Crap On Them. The Smoke Here Will Make Them Stink, And Tomorrow A Bulldozer Will Probably Run Over Them, But For Right Now They Are So Beautiful.

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