“It's because you aren't thinking very clearly tonight.""I know. Being Drunk is weird.""Oh my god. I love you so much. Especially when you say stuff like that.""Like what?""Nothing. Never mind. Although I'm dying to know why your shoe is green.”

“The generalizing writer is like the passionate drunk, stumbling into your house mumbling: I know I'm not being clear, exactly, but don't you kind of feel what I'm feeling?”

“I've never wanted anything more in my life, if i died tomorrow, being with you, like this tonight, will have been the best night of my entire existence. And it's not because of a stupid bucket list; it's because i love you.”

“As you wish. But I'd like to change the pace a little. You know, my throat is sore from talking so much. So, what would you think if I tell you about the Sullens through interpretive dance? Honestly, I'm quite good at it, and I usually charge admission, or at the very least ask for a box of treats. But for you, tonight's performance it's on the house.”

“So what do you have to confess now?"I don't know why I'm saying any of this, except that it's the truth. "I'm confessing that I don't know if I'm ready for this.""What is 'this'?"Being open. Being hurt. Liking. Not being liked. Seeing the flicker on. Seeing the flicker off. Leaping. Falling. Crashing.”

“Oh, you know what bloggers are like, they write and write and write. I don't know why, because they're not being paid.”