After all those years of all kinds of abuse and crashing into trees at eighty miles an hour and jumping off buildings and living through overdoses and liver disease, I feel better now than I did ten years ago. I might have some scar tissue, but that’s all right, I’m still making progress. And when I do think, “Man, a fucking motel room with a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of narcotics would do me right,” I just look over at my dog and remember that Buster’s never seen me high.
