If you’re going to say something, say something that’s worth repeating.

We are hurt. We are healed. We hurt. We heal.

I feel so basic, like a Yugo.

As the days become colder, I feel my heart warming up.

What we all want, more than anything, is meaning.

If I started talking about love and light and peace and healing, would that freak you out?

These decorative tassels are not the boss of me.

I will not be governed by metronome or meter.

Suddenly there is a dump truck in my driveway and a woman yelling in Thai.

What would we not worship or covet simply because of its materiality.

One cannot live in a heartless world without something that has a heart.

My tap water smells like a dog I once loved.

I have no idea how I went from a sleeping to a waking state today. One moment I was in bed. The next, I was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing jeans and a bra, worrying about the state of my abdomen.

Quigly “Dubious” Terrington likes the smell of peanut butter.

Now that I have a hamster and two hermit crabs, who isn’t going to want to be my friend?

The world is full of poets with bold moves and bad manners.

I read language as if looking through branches.

I am not here to write things that will make you feel comfortable.

I am coming to believe the only person I was/am meant to converse with is my dead mother: Everyone else was/is just a stand-in.

I might start talking again sogon. To the living, that is.

I am busy removing the pleats from my invisibility cloak. They make me look bulky, even though I am invisible.

For every “discovery” you make, you leave hundreds, if not thousands, unearthed.

To provide effective customer service, one must work the library as if they are working the room at a party. Only without the alcohol.

Oh look. You made spam email into a poem. How original.

No, this is not something I normally do. It’s something I abnormally do. Thanks for allowing me to clarify.

I think the entire field of public librarianship needs to be put in the spanking machine.

My husband just aptly described my modus operendi: You hold happiness hostage, and then you steal all the candy.

No matter how many rituals I employ to frame, contain and contextualize my day, nothing negates the futility of existence.

If everything is futile, why do we continue? I think it is because someone told us we could love one another.

I think what I want more than anything is to have an open heart.

If I know when you’ve been naughty or nice, does that make me Santa Claus or God. I can’t remember.

Twitter’s “Who to Follow” suggestions should be renamed “Who to Avoid.”

I want to be open to wide views and visionary dimensions that can be fantastic, but not deformed.

To my credit, at every phase of my life, I have surrounded myself with those who are more talented than I am.

I am staring out the window, waiting for my husband to come home and walk me.

People say I’m just like my father: a pistol. Too bad I’m not loaded.

I have a passion that is greater than you.

When one cannot issue orders, one becomes adept at offering suggestions.

Because I could not disagree, I remained silent. This was the first step in the occupation of my life.

I remember touching David Lynch: His skin was soft and cold, like a Vietnamese spring roll.