“They're pretty conspicuous.""Why? Are they green and horny?" I willed a blush away and said, "I mean, as in having horns,not...the other.”

“Before green apples blush,Before green nuts embrown,Why, one day in the country,Is worth a month in town...”

“Why shouldn’t I? I demand silently. Why shouldn’t I become a famous writer? Like Norman Mailer. Or Philip Roth. And F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway and all those other men. Why can’t I be like them? I mean, what is the point of becoming a writer if no one reads what you’ve written?Damn Viktor Greene and The New School. Why do I have to keep proving myself all of the time? Why can’t I be like L’il, with everyone praising and encouraging me? Or Rainbow, with her sense of entitlement. I bet Viktor Greene never asked Rainbow why she wanted to be a writer.Or what if-I wince-Viktor Greene is right? I’m not a writer after all.”

“I’m bored of this. I want to hear about you. Favorite color. Go.”I laugh. “Green.”“I’m green!”“Fuck yeah you are.”“Why are you laughing? Isn’t this what friends do?”“Interrogate each other?”“What? Uh, sure. I don’t know what that means. But yes.”

“Oh,' she said. 'I have never seen a Jew before. Can I see his horns?”

“I wasn't used to guys making me blush, and I wasn't sure why he even was making me blush.”