“Your neck. I want to kiss it.”

To offend is my pleasure; I love to be hated.

My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.

A kiss is a rosy dot placed on the “i” in loving.

A pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely.

A great nose may be an index Of a great soul.

All our souls are written in our eyes.

I am what I am because early in life I decided that I would please at least myself in all things.

And if kisses in these words could travel too, Madam, you’d read this letter with your lips.

A pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely.

The dream, alone, is of interest. What is life without a dream?

You must believe me when I believe, and not when I doubt.

My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.

A large nose is in fact the sign of an affable man, good, courteous, witty, liberal, courageous, such as I am.

It is at night that faith in light is admirable.

My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.

To joke in the face of danger is the supreme politeness, a delicate refusal to cast oneself as a tragic hero.

While other kids were out playing and doing healthy things, I read an ancient judo book with a neck hold that was fatal to so many people they finally dropped it from judo.

I designed my whole image. That was all me. I just bought some regular clothes, threw a medallion around my neck, and that was it. The next thing I know, that’s the look.

Always watch your back – when I was fourteen I got a tattoo of an eye on the back of my neck, so I could say I was always watchin’ my back.

I’ve got a great staff and great support system, and I’m going to stick my neck out and do what I always do.

With your hand around my neck – heaven and hell dance to the same noise.

I like tattoos. I’m gonna be covered. I’m not going to touch my face or under the chin on the neck: it’s my least favorite place.

The patriarchy continues to try to crush my neck with heavy boots, cut off my life force, and take away my voice – even those who call themselves artists, you know who you are.

After the vines that were tightly wrapped around my neck finally loosened, I made a vow to never take breathing for granted again.