Don't Live With Writers. Writers

There Was A Time When I Liked A Good Riot. Put On Some Heavy Old Street Clothes That Could Stand A Bit Of Sidewalk-scraping, Infect Myself With Something Good And Contagious, Then Go Out And Stamp On Some Cops. It Was Great, Being Nine Years Old.

You're Miserable, Edgy And Tired. You're In The Perfect Mood For Journalism.

If You Believe That Your Thoughts Originate Inside Your Brain, Do You Also Believe That Television Shows Are Made Inside Your Television Set?

By Four O'clock, I've Discounted Suicide In Favor Of Killing Everyone Else In The Entire World Instead.

Santa Monica's Only Walkable If Death Is No Hurdle. The Air's The Wrong Colour. People Put Sunglasses On Their Dogs. It's A Hideous Place Where Humans Are Not Welcome And Those Who Stay Suffer Eight Kinds Of Brain Damage.