“You're like a motherfucking unicorn. Do you know any other male slash writers who bang chicks??”

“Any writer who knows what he's doing isn't doing very much.”

“You ordinary people who read and do not write, who 'like to read' and know nothing of the sufferings of writers, how fortunate you are!”

“What the eff are you two alcoholics talking about? You're all hovering over each other like you're plotting to take over the world. You know you can't do any of that fun stuff without me.”

“There is something about riding a unicorn, for those people who still can, which is unlike any other experience: exhilarating, and intoxicating, and fine.”

“He books it into that little playground there. I mean the guy is zooming like the Road Runner, skidding through the gravel and the slush and everything. I’m yelling, “Police, police! Stop, motherfucker!” ‘You do not yell, “Stop, motherfucker.”’ ‘I do. Because you know, Palace, this is it. This is the last chance I get to run after a perp yelling, “Stop, motherfucker.”