“If you're horrible to me, I'm going to write a song about it, and you won't like it. That's how I operate.”

“You're not going to die," I told her, lifting my head to look at her. "I'm not done writing songs about you yet.”

“I'm serious. You know that feeling when you're driving in the car and a song you really love comes on the radio and the window is down and you can go a little faster than you should and you feel like everything is yours and the world is beautiful and you're free? That's how I feel when he looks at me.”

“And you won't write any more stupid songs about me?""Can't promise that. In fact, that may be all I do for the rest of my life.”

“And I'm not saying it's a bad song, you know, or anything like that. All I'm saying is that if you get, I don't know, a broom, say, and dip it in some brake fluid, put the other end up my arse, stick me on a trampoline in a moving lift, and I would write a better song on the walls. That's all I'm saying.”

“I'm not done writing songs about you yet.”