I had this vision of the two of us holding hands or getting into some light petting behind shower curtains or up in the fencing aisle or some shit.

Got anything to eat?" I asked."You know where the gas station is," said my incredibly nurturing and maternal mother.

This bastard was in a self-help program? For what? Square-jawed, cleft-chin sufferers? Handsome Bastards Anonymous?

...like the twig furniture she made, thinking it was going to make us rich, only she's shit with a hammer and nails and the stuff ended up being deadly. You were practically begging for a colonoscopy if you sat on it.

Wetting one's pants is no kind of self-esteem builder.

In spite of the terrible pain I was in, I tried to help name the hot sauces. For the allegedly mild one, which tasted like nuclear fall-out, I suggested Hot as Fuck. For the medium one, which tasted like seven lit cigarettes applied firmly to the tongue, I suggested You'd Have to Be an Idiot to Try This, and for the Scorpion sauce, which was so hot I think it gave me permanent nerve damage, I suggested Lawsuit Followed by Complete Financial Collapse.She ignored all my suggestions...

My heart kind of hurt when I looked at her. Not because I was in love, but because I could tell from looking at her that she didn't hate herself. Not only didn't she seem to hate herself, she barely seemed to think about herself. How fucking glorious must that be?

It's been a pretty tough day," he said. "No sense making it worse with a salad.

Bobby just stared at me. There was already crumbs in his mustache and it was barely seven in the morning.