“Not my fault that you’re distractingly pretty.”I have to take a minute to confirm to the pissed off part of my brain that still works that, yes, in fact, I did just say that. And I don’t know if distractingly is even a word. If it is, it’s a stupid one. Like me.”

“Not my fault you're distractingly pretty.”

“I really do. It’s the first time I don’t have to think at work, you know. It’s really simple. Youjust answer the phone and put in people’s orders. It’s pretty laid back. You don’t like it?”“No. I feel like it’s killing my brain.”“Maybe that’s why I like it. I don’t mind not having to think.”

“I don’t care about my face! I’m tired of being stupid, and everybody keeping me stupid just for the sake of my face. Even if it means I have to run off and live in the wild caves with a bag over my head, I still want to know what’s going on. I need to know.”

“Sometimes I just want to paint the words "It's my fault" across my forehead to save people the time of being pissed off at me.”

“I take it you didn’t get the permits...again. (Brian)What was your first clue? (Geary)Oh, I don’t know. That stomping stance as you walked down the street, clenching and unclenching your fists like you’re already choking someone, or maybe it’s that way you’re looking at me like you could claw out my eyes when I haven’t done anything to piss you off. (Brian)Yes, you have. (Geary)And that is? (Brian)You don’t have a gun. (Geary)”