The manuals we got from IBM would show examples of programs and I knew I could do a heck of a lot better than that. So I thought I might have some talent.
I'm afraid to live and afraid to die.
I wouldn't intentionally hurt anyone in this whole world. I wouldn't hurt them physically or emotionally, how then can people so consistently do it to me? Even my parents treat me like I'm stupid and inferior and ever short. I guess I'll never measure up to anyone's expectations. I surely don't measure up to what I'd like to be.
Why is life so difficult? Why can't we be just ourselves and have everyone accept us the way we are?
They have accepted me as an individual, as a personality, as an entity. I belong! I am important! I am somebody!
My biggest mistake: not wanting to help myself into thinking I am happy, that change would come about without really trying to change, or wanting to change. Procrastinating about changing. I do want to change.
I’ve got to sleep. Sleep is my only way to escape.
With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.
One of the reasons I'm able to write books and still carry on with other work is that I do my best writing between 5am and midday.
If you don't do anything, you simply end up overwhelmed by something happening.
My inner critic who had begun piping up about how hopeless I was and how I didn't know to write.