I'm A Pleaser. That's My Character.

I Won The Argument Against The Knife That Night, But Barely. I Had Some Other Good Ideas Around That Time--about How Jumping Off A Building Or Blowing My Brains Out With A Gun Might Stop The Suffering. But Something About Spending A Night With A Knife In My Hand Did It. The Next Morning I Called My Friend Susan As The Sun Came Up, Begged Her To Help Me. I Don't Think A Woman In The Whole History Of My Family Had Ever Done That Before, Had Ever Sat In The Middle Of The Road Like That And Said, In The Middle Of Her Life, "i Cannot Walk Another Step Further--somebody Has To Help Me.

He Looks At You Like You're Someone He's Never Met Before, Much Less Someone He Once Loved With High Passion. The Irony Is, You Can Hardly Blame Him. I Mean, Check Yourself Out. You're A Pathetic Mess, Unrecognizable Even To Your Own Eyes.

If We Never Leave Our House Except To Drive To Work, Do We Need To Be Even Remotely Aware Of This Powerful, Humbling, Extraordinary And Eternal Life Force That Surges And Ebbs Around Us All The Time? Apparently Not. Because We Have Stopped Paying Attention.

I Have A Lot Of Trouble Forgiving Myself For Being So Dumb... But Yes, Of Course, The Big Generous Compassionate View That You Should Take Of Yourself And Of All Events Is: What A Glorious Circus Train This Has Been, And What A Wonderful Messy Parade, And All Of Those Steps Took Me Here, Where I Precisely Need To Be Now, So God Bless It.

Absolute Certainty Is Not Something I Strive For Anymore. I've Learned The Hard Way That Destiny Usually Looks Upon Our Most Strident Convictions With Amusement, Or Perhaps Even Pity.