“You might think she just liked the cut of my jib, but I’ve seen my jib and I’m here to tell you it’s not cut that cute.”

“The next person who tells me something like, "Squiggle-fuck the rightwise cock-swatter with a starboard jib," is going to get a knife to the throat.”

“I’ve seen your foot up close.” Curran pointed to his chest. “I’ve seen it here.” He moved his hand to his jaw. “Here.” He touched the place over his cheek where my kick had cut him. “And here.”

“Just so I’m clear, if you make it Tab or my cut, I pick Tab. You’ll get my cut and you, personally, will not ever, brother, not ever again see me.”

“I’m surprised a person with your experience in telling elaborate fables should have difficulty in thinking up such a simple tale, but I suppose it’s a different issue when you have to think quickly rather than spend time thoroughly developing your story.” “I’m sure that’s it,” she replied blithely, cutting her bacon into small bits.“I’m also sure that my skills will grow over time. I just need to practice, practice, practice. Did I ever tell you about the dragon I owned when I was a child?”

“I’m over here in my unit, isolated and alone, eating my terrible tasting food, and I have to look over at that. That looks like the most fun I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and it’s B.S. - excuse my language. I’m just saying that I wash and dry; I’m like a single mother. Look, we all know home-ec is a joke—no offense—it’s just that everyone takes this class to get an A, and it’s bullshit—and I’m sorry. I’m not putting down your profession, but it’s just the way I feel. I don’t want to sit here, all by myself, cooking this shitty food—no offense—and I just think that I don’t need to cook tiramisu. When am I gonna need to cook tiramisu? Am I going to be a chef? No. There’s three weeks left of school, give me a fuckin’ break! I’m sorry for cursing.”