The sum of the past days fell upon me and the soft rumble of the engine invited sleep, but I willed myself to stay awake. It wasn’t every day I was on Oprah’s private jet.
Sam HarrisYou’re not from around here, are you?” asked the room service girl.
“No,” I replied. “That’s why I’m staying at a hotel . . .
Word was that God could heal anyone. The wounded, the infirm, even lepers. I figured I should be a breeze.
Sam HarrisI wanted to be famous. So famous that I would be vehemently hated by all the people I admired most.
Sam HarrisHis broomish mustache hung over most of his mouth and was always littered with remnants of his last meal. Not crumbs. Enough to qualify as leftovers.
Sam HarrisOccasionally, Michael Jackson would titter to himself at an internal joke and raise his shoulders like a five-year-old girl who’d just said the word “penis” for the first time.
Sam HarrisI was 15 years old and singing “I Miss the Hungry Years.” And I was a little fat.
Sam HarrisIt was finally the obese, inescapable burden of sadness—such a simple word—that finally led to acknowledging and treating my alcoholism.
Sam HarrisI asked God for greater challenges to endure. I should have been more specific.
Sam HarrisA heavy, peppery steam spiraled skyward and the remains of our house spit and stammered like the last stubborn kernels of popping corn. Everyone was so sorry.
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