I tell people I'm on a diet. If somebody sees me with a muffin, they'll think I'm off my diet. It's like secret little police that I've made for myself.

The first time I ever did a play, in junior high school, I said to myself, 'Hey, people like me doing this. I'm making them laugh.'

I'll make a diet cheesecake, but I'll put it in a Sara Lee box. Or I'll have a huge bowl of pasta, but it's actually just a cup of pasta - the rest is vegetables. It makes me feel less deprived.

I didn't get a Bachelor's degree - I got a Bachelor's of Fine Arts, which means I didn't have to take humanities, math, and stuff like that. I think I had to take Art History, which I failed a few times.

Like most severely overweight people, I had to hit a rock-hard bottom before I'd take responsibility for the consequences of neglecting my own health.

I felt different from everyone else - like an alien. The looks I received when I was 320 pounds were ones usually reserved for three-eyed monsters, half-man half-woman reptiles, creatures with hideous rolls of skin that sweated profusely and jiggled when they walked. That last one really was me.