“Let me be the ring leader in your guilt gang-bang. ”

“Your dad was in a street gang?" My adopted dad was an accountant for a big Fortune 500 corporation. Him, me, and my adopted mom lived in the suburbs in an English Tudor house with a gigantic basement where he fiddled with model trains. The other dads were lawyers and research chemists, but they all ran model trains. Every weekend they could, they'd load into a family van and cruise into the city for research. Snapping pictures of gang members. Gang graffiti. Sex workers walking their tracks. Litter and pollution and homeless heroin addicts. All this, they'd study and bicker about, trying to outdo each other with the most realistic, the grittiest scenes of urban decay they could create in HO train scale in a subdivision basement”

“Just let your hand drop; and let fate decide for you.”

“The se­cret is to not let your imag­ina­tion get car­ried away.”

“This isn't about guilt or innocence, he says. The dinosaurs weren't morally good or bad, but they're all dead.”

“My stomach hurts, but if it's guilt or impacted stool, I can't tell. Either way, I'm so full of shit.”

“Fuck off with your sofa units and strine green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let... lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”