“Me and the bottle have always been friends, we've had a few old nasty fights but the bottle would always win, so when I go to answer that final curtain call, I can hear these words being whispered by all... Ol' George stopped drinking today.”

“I didn’t win a championship, but I did pop some champagne bottles—and a few locks. Why bother training when you can just steal the trophy?”

“Jeez, how old are you?” I total y knew how old he was, but I wanted to pick. Aiden cracked his neck. “I turn twenty-one in October.” “Huh.” I shook the bottle. “So have you always been so…mature?” His brows furrowed. “Mature?” “Yeah, you sound like a dad.” I deepened my voice and tried to look stern. “‘Don’t look at me that way’ or else.” Aiden blinked slowly. “I don’t sound like that and I didn’t say ‘or else.’” “But if you had, what would the ‘or else’ be?” I hid my grin with the bottle.”

“When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles......they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle bottle paddle battle.”

“I have always had more dread of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper than of a sword or pistol.”

“Logan couldn’t remember when a few drinks became a bottle and then two bottles every night. He couldn’t point to one single moment or event as the cause. From his first drink at fourteen, alcohol began soaking into his skin, the moisture rotting him on the inside. Every few years he’d use a chisel to hack away all the wet, unsound wood without trying to find the source of the moisture. The rot always came back, stronger than before.”