“It appears that countless women born between the years of 1965 and 1978 are in love with John Cusack. I cannot fathom how he isn't the number-one box office star in America, because every straight girl I know would seel her soul to share a milkshake with that motherfucker.”

“I once loved a girl who almost loved me, but not as much as she loved John Cusack.”

“And you work for that demon, right? The one who looks like Matthew Broderick?”“John Cusack,” I corrected. “He looks like John Cusack.”“Whatever.”

“If the stars should appear but one night every thousand years how man would marvel and adore.”

“John Cusack is standing over there.”I followed his incredulous gaze to where a man very like Mr. Cusack did indeed stand, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against a building. I sighed.“That’s not John Cusack. That’s Jerome.”“Seriously?”“Yup. I told you he looked like John Cusack.”“Keyword: looked. That guy doesn’t look like him. That guy is him.”

“the ancient sanskirt legends speak of a destined love, a karmic connection between souls that are fated to meet and collide and enrapture one another. the legends say that the loved one is instantly recognised because she's loved in every gesture, every expression of thought, every movement, every sound, and every mood that prays in her eyes. the legends say that we know her by her wings - the wings that only we can see - and because wanting her kills every other desire of love. the same legends also carry warnings that such fated love may, sometimes, be the possession and the obsession of one, and only one, of the two souls twinned by destiny. but wisdom, in one sense, is the opposite of love. love survives in us precisely because it isn't wise.”