“I meant to spend the day writing, but instead I spent the afternoon cleaning out my belly button. Historians will thank me one day.”

“I cleaned out my belly button last night, and I found the meaning of life. Gosh, I wonder how long it’s been hidden there.”

“(The new boyfriend) knows I write every day for hours but has no idea that all I’m writing about is me. It seems wiser to let him think I’m an aspiring novelist instead of just an alcoholic with a year of sobriety who spends eight hours a day writing about the other 16.”

“I spent my day as I normally spend my days: threatening suppliers, bullying those who are not in line with my expectations, and generally creating havoc in the lives of others. The square across the street is empty of all but the pigeons. I find myself resenting them.”

“What could I do, to make the most of this day, whether I was in my own day, or this one? What amazing history was I seeing firsthand? Would I embrace it, instead of crying and whining? Was it in me to be grateful for my situation? Truly in me?”

“I have spent most of the day putting in a comma and the rest of the day taking it out.”