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I've got a lot of issues. I've got a whole lot of daddy issues.

A peculiar fact about termite-tapeworm-fungus-moss art is that it goes always forward, eating its own boundaries, and, likely as not, leaves nothing in its path other than the signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity.

I have the same problems that everybody else does.

I have had many troubles in my life, but the worst of them never came.

I had my share of issues, but now, it's something that's made me who I am and no complaints.

Your problems never cease. They just change.

The only time I have problems is when I sleep.

I'm a human being and every human being has problems.

My mom and I have always had issues.

Novelists who pretend to understand what keeps them scribbling are really just guessing. A profound, unmet childish need to be acknowledged? Maybe. It hardly matters, though. The termite that asks itself why it keeps chewing risks becoming sluggish and inefficient, as does the writer who grows self-conscious in the middle of chapter five.