“Things don't like me. Furniture purposely sticks out its leg for me. A polished corner once literally bit me. My blanket and I have always had a complicated relationship.”

“I'm THAT complicated, mysterious, yet content with the "simple" things in life. Don't try to understand me; you won't figure me out. But you're free to like me the way I am.”

“After a good run, my legs feel like Jell-O. Somebody get me a spoon and stick a fork in me.”

“In the cramped confines of the toilet I had trouble getting out of my wet trousers, which clung to my legs like a drowning man. The new ones were quite complicated too in that they had more legs than a spider; either that or they didn't have enough legs to get mine into. The numbers failed to add up. Always there was one trouser leg too many or one of my legs was left over. From the outside it may have looked like a simple toilet, but once you were locked in here the most basic rules of arithmetic no longer held true.”

“I don't know when it started - this thing - bit it's growing, muffling me, suffocating me like poison ivy. I grew into it. It grew into me. We blurred at the edges, became an amorphous, seeping, crawling thing.”

“Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining.”