You have to learn how to be married. You have to learn to love somebody.

I call myself a FFP: former fat person, and when you're an FFP, you will always see in yourself what people used to bully you for.

I'm not one of those people who are desperate to get married.

I don't really care what people think about my hair. It's my hair, so why should they care? Ooh, that rhymed.

I can't lie, I did a lot of really, really stupid things, and it was because it was my way of crying for help.

I say find one true friend to help you get through the tough times.

I took more hell for being fat than I did for being an absolute raging drug addict. I will never understand that.

If you haven't felt like quitting, your dreams aren't big enough!

I'm giving everyone involved 24 hours to make it right or the world will hear how I really feel.

OK, boss, I don't mind shuffling, but I won't scratch my head.

Sorrow for not understanding like I understand now the unpredictable, profound journey that marriage is.

Revolutionaries don't get job security. They compete with rats for cheese and with strays for shelter--after the big bullets make feet out of their knees.

I don't want to have my children have to get dressed up to go out to say good morning and deserve to live among some other people. I want to be able to be free and take for granted that my neighbors like me and I like them.

That we arrived at fifty years together is due as much to luck as to love, and a talent for knowing, when we stumble, where to fall, and how to get up again.

Among whom the gods bless, high on the list are the music people, who tune into celestial vibe-brations and give mortals a taste of immortal sensations.