“The word 'free-lance', I used to think, had a romantic ring; but sadly discovered, when I tried to be one, that its practice has little freedom, and the lance is a sorry weapon to tilt at literary windmills.”

“The free-lance writer is one who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.”

“When princes flee battle, and knights turn free-lance, and barons rob pilgrims, what value has honor?"“Why, all the more, seeing how rare it has become.”

“In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing.”

“That night Lance wants to rub his penis as he thinks of Lexi but he refrains. He doesn’t want Lexi to be a masturbatory fantasy in the tradition of Cindy Crawford, Heather Locklear, Kate Hudson and Whoopi Goldberg. No. Hell no! As a matter of fact, hellll no with marshmallows on top. Lance wants Lexi to be his special lady, everything he needs and more. Lance has a gut feeling, an irritable bowel syndrome sensation, that Lexi is his Soul Mate, the one woman God made especially for him to enjoy. Lance wonders if Lexi is allergic to hyacinths. Roses are so common.”

“In the ring Tink." Lance points at me.I sigh, "Lance…uhm…sir. My name is Sarah."He waves me off, "We all have nicknames here. I'll never remember Sarah. But with your hair in that bun, you look like Tinkerbell.”