My roommate's dog (in Baton Rouge in 1994) is literally retarded. Literally.

A mind called consciousness itself exists, and it is manifested in many places. My brain is one of those places.

Pulp Fiction is full of hidden issues. For example, Marsellus and Butch were not permanently "cool" with each other. When they parted, seemingly for good, Marsellus did not yet know that Butch had killed Vincent.

I know how to give a speech to Congress and convince everybody in the building to end the war on drugs. (I don't really, but I thought I did one time when I was high.)

All behavior is absurd because the universe is meaningless.

The invasion of Iraq is the beginning of World War III. (I was overwhelmed with that feeling when I was stoned and watching the initial fighting. I no longer believe it.)

The car I hear driving down my street is a police car, and they are coming to arrest me because they know I am high.

All this stuff that is happening, all these issues that are concerning us, everything we have ever known and ever will know... It's just atoms doing atom stuff.