“Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.”

“I’ve met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, “Why?”Why did I cause so much pain?Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love?I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God’s got this all wrong.We are not special.We are not crap or trash, either.We just are.We just are, and what happens just happens.And God says, “No, that’s not right.”Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.”

“This is less teaching than damage control. You may as well paint a house that’s on fire.”

“On a night without moon or stars you can't see a thing, but you can imagine anything.”

“This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you”

“Yeah, parents will always fuck you up.”

“Parents are like God because you wanna know they're out there, and you want them to think well of you, but you really only call when you need something.”