“I was consumed by some kind of unholy, indignant rage that propelled me through the confrontation to its successful conclusion - and out the other side into the cool, calm lagoon of reflective dread known as the ‘what the fuck have I just done?’ feeling.”

“I have no idea why this is. I’m sure somebody with a beard and too much time on their hands would say it has something to do with sex - but they’ll say that about anything.”

“I'm standing on a gigantic book, floating in space...I will never need to take drugs in my entire life!”

“You might discuss important philosophical topics, such as the nature of existence- or what a bunch of lying toe rags politicians are.”

“The second she touched it, the blue screen of death appeared, along with that dissonant gank noise Windows makes when it decides the stress of existence has become too much and commits electronic suicide.”

“Normally it makes me really happy to see, not just that they’re in love but that love like that is possible. Right now, though, I just kind of want to throw water on them.”

“I recently discovered that a friend who was re-reading Bleak House had done no other Dickens apart from Barnaby Ridge. That's just weird. I shamed and nagged him into picking up Great Expectations instead. But when I tried to recall anything about it other than its excellence, I failed. Maybe there was something about a peculiar stepfather? Or was that This Boy's Life? And I realized that, as this is true of just about every book I consumed between the ages of, say fifteen to forty, I havent even read the books I think I've read. I can't tell you how depressing this is. What's the fucking point?”