I grew up with too much freedom. You can’t define yourself.
I’ve got a new relationship and I’m trapped in this old life.
If there’s anything more mortifying than being famous at 14, it’s being washed up right after.
I have a tree man coming to trim the jacaranda in my front garden.
I made enough money to buy a house. That’s crazy, but fame proved ephemeral.
My mother did literally hitchhike barefoot to the country store.
Not many people know what their parents sound like having sex. It was noisy.
I don’t want to lose my name because that’s how I know myself. There is a legacy here.
I like to think of myself as a New Yorker, which is pathetic.
I’m totally convinced I can write the perfect pop song.
I spent most of my life locked in my bedroom, miserable about my raging acne.