“You can't dingleberry that! That's a flagrant misuse of the dingleberry!”

“I like the strings. I always have. Because that's how it feels. But the strings make pain seem more fatal than it is, I think. We're not as frail as the strings would make us believe. And I like the grass, too. The grass got me to you, helped me to imagine you as an actual person. But we're not different sprouts from the same plant. I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well – but never quite perfectly, you know?”

“I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well—but never quite perfectly, you know?”

“But with friendship, there's nothing like that. Being in a relationship, that's something you choose. Being friends, that's just something you are.”

“But that's a lie, and you know it.”

“I can't be mad at you, you harmless scrawny bastard.”

“Being in a relationship, that's something you choose. Being friends, that's just something you are. [But] I do pick you. We've been friends too long to pick, but if we could pick, I'd pick you.”