It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.

We did a few things worth remembering, and I wish for someone to remember them.

I think if you went back to the eighteenth century and you asked a fifteen year old boy, 'Would you like to marry a woman who has had plastic bags needlessly inserted into her breasts?', that fifteen year old boy would probably be like, 'what's plastic?'.

Do you know what your problem is? You can't live with the idea that someone might leave.

I left the only way you can leave. You pull your life off all at once - like a Band-Aid.

I leave, and the leaving is so exhilarating I know I can never go back. But then what? Do I just keep leaving places, and leaving them, and leaving them, tramping a perpetual journey?