“I’d love to try to sell a blank white canvas to an art dealer. And when he asks what it is, I’d tell him, “It’s a landscape painting of Key West, from the perspective of an optimistic blind man.”

“The canvas isn’t empty. It’s full of whatever you imagine it to be full of. My art is so conceptual that not only do I not tell, but I don’t even show. All I do is sign the canvas and try to sell it.”

“Snow on one side of the canvas, silence on the other. I’d call that a perfect painting.”

“I’d love to be a color commentator, but I can’t, because I’m white, and white isn’t a color.”

“I called to tell her I loved her, which was smart, because if I’d have done it in person, I’d have caught her with another man. I don’t care if he was my clone, it isn’t right and it pisses me off. I was backstabbed by myself.
”

“I really relate to you,” I said to my dad. “I can tell we’re in the same boat, because I’m rowing.” When I found out I was going to be a father, I wanted to meet a man I’d never met—my dad, who also just found out he was a father when I introduced myself. I never got to tell him I loved him before he died, but from the way I gently but forcefully held his head underwater, I think he could tell.”

“If my love were a bagel, I’d put cream cheese on it. But it’s not a bagel, so I just put cheddar on top. Would you like to try a sample?”