I've been to Washington many times over the years for stories, and it always seems remarkably the same. More the same than the rest of the country. It's almost like they dress the same as they did 20 years ago. The same old guys are sitting outside the same dirty, dingy secret offices in the Capitol that you're not allowed to go in.
In my own worst seasons I've come back from the colorless world of despair by forcing myself to look hard, for a long time, at a single glorious thing: a flame of red geranium outside my bedroom window. And then another: my daughter in a yellow dress. And another: the perfect outline of a full, dark sphere behind the crescent moon. Until I learned to be in love with my life again. Like a stroke victim retraining new parts of the brain to grasp lost skills, I have taught myself joy, over and over again(15).
People think pop is rock, and the lines are getting blurred. Now Rihanna's wearing f-ckin' leather jackets, and it's really annoying. . . (My style is) high-class hooker. I dress for myself. Clearly, it's provocative, but it makes me feel good. And if the only reason it makes someone uncomfortable is because I'm 17, then that person's a scumbag because it shouldn't matter.