I'm a doctor of cowshit, pigshit, and chickenshit. . . . . when you doctors figure out what you want, you'll find me out in the barn shoveling my thesis.
I would never be happy with just coming to TV tapings, not working house shows, and just getting by, staying in the shadows. I'm proud of the fact that I can turn chickenshit to chicken salad.
Tal told me he loved me, and told me and told me, but you don't tell someone that and then tell them they're not experienced enough in bed and should read a book or something to learn, or they should try wearing deep-red lipstick and tight skirts to look hot like their best friend once in a while. If Tal hadn't lied to me when he said he loved me, I might not be without a future right now, a sucker who was so chickenshit she allowed herself to believe a false dream from a false god. I'm not sure I ever even liked Tal, much less loved him.