Memory is so subjective. We all remember in a visceral, emotional way, — Alan Cumming

"I just dont like meat. Rotten carcasses dont feel good inside in my body. Ive also seen some horrible documentaries about the hormones and things that go into meat. On a health level, meat is so scary. […] Its not just about staying away from meat, its about keeping things in your diet that make you feel good. Thats why you eat vegetarian in the first place. […] I think killing to make or eat things is horrific. It seems like there was a movement against wearing fur in fashion, but overnight its fine again. I hate the way we pay lip service to issues like that."

"I’ve really noticed over the last few years how many people are turning towards eating vegetarian or vegan. […] Everyone’s realizing that these things are delicious and good for you. And I think it’s an indication of how we’re becoming more conscious of what we do to our bodies by what we put into them and what we do to the planet."

"Had I not had the childhood I did, would these traits not be so at the forefront of my personality? Who knows? All I know is that I am the product of all the experiences I have had, good and bad, and if I am in a happy place in my life (as I truly am), then I can have no regrets about any of the combination of events and circumstances that have led me to the here and now."

"“You need a haircut, boy!” My father had only glanced at me across the kitchen table as he spoke but I had already seen in his eyes the coming storm. […] I hoped that my going to the barbers during school lunch break the next day would appease him. […] I had to get some water or I was going to choke, or worse, cry. I got up from the table and moved towards the sink. […] He threw me up on top of a workbench. He was baying now, not just shouting. You couldnt understand what he was saying but I know it had to do with my hair and my water drinking and how fucking useless and insolent and pathetic I was, but it wasnt coherent. […] Soon my head was propelled forward by his hand, the other one wielding a rusty pair of clippers that he used on the sheep we had in the field in front of our house. They were blunt and dirty and they cut my skin, but my father shaved my head with them, holding me down like an animal."