“You could ask me to teach you.”“Huh?” This night is getting weird in a hurry. “Teach me like you’re teaching a class or something? What are you going to call it: ‘You Too Can Be a Sociopath 101’?”“It would be more like a graduate-level class.” I start to snicker. His sense of humour sneaks up on you. Then I remember who’s talking and bite it off.”

“I had a few good professors in my painting and drawing classes, but all my graphic design classes tried to teach us how to use Photoshop and Illistrator by showing the class demonstration video clips. You know, exactly like the kind you can watch for free on Youtube, except these video clips cost me thousands of dollars to watch. I felt like I paid a lot of money to learn martial arts, only to show up to find the instructor is fat, sluggish, and cowardly, and he tries to overcome that by trying to teach us how to fight by showing us Chuck Norris movies. (Fact: Chuck Norris could teach me how to fight without even bothering to show up to class).”

“What makes you think you’re so special? Just because you’re a teacher? What he was really saying was: You are so special. You are my teacher. Then teach me, help me, Hey, Teach, I’m lost—which way do I go? I’m tired of going up the down staircase.”

“I can teach you a lesson you won't forget in a hurry”

“The first time I met you, you told me you grew up here, I’d call you a liar,” Tate informed me.I tipped my head to the side and asked, “Really?”“Really.”“Why?”“High-class,” he replied.“Sorry?”“You looked high-class,” he semi-repeated.“I’m not,” I stated.“No, Ace, you’re not. You’re a different kind of class.”“Farmer class.”“Pure class.”

“You're a virgin. You have no idea what you're asking for.""Then you will have to teach me.""Not like this. Not on a horse in the middle of nowhere.”