“Yeah, I'm over forty, flighty, and fluffy- I'd say I'm not ideal bouncer material.”

“I mean, six years ago my electricity's being cut off and my car's getting repossessed and I'm being evicted from my apartment, and now I'm all "Yeah, havin' dinner with Rudy in the Hamptons, what of it?”

“I yearn to be a woman of more depth, but I'm not so fond of the path I'd need to follow to get there.”

“Despite my best efforts, I'm not quite perfect. Let's just say I'm like one of those Hopi blankets where they leave a tiny flaw so as to not affront the Lord.”

“I'm not lazy. I'm simply judicious about excess movement.”

“I stuff another handful of Raisinets in my mouth. What gets me is the 'pretty face' bit. 'Cause I won't mind being reminded I'm fat as long as you water it down first. Why not say, Hey I'm going to insult you, but first I will congratulate your fortunate genetics and appropriate appliclation of Bobbi Brown cosmetics to prevent you from hitting me. Sh*t; I kind of prefer being called a 'fat bitch.' At least it doesn't pull any punches.”

“Really? If I could hate my trainer? That would be ideal. I'd prefer to despise this person with the fire of ten thousand suns. So when I walk - nay, crawl - out of here at the end of my workouts, I want to lull myself to sleep by picturing my very talented and inspirational trainer getting hit by a bus. A bus that I am driving.”