I want to sell books labeled “self-help” so I will have no obligations to research, accuracy or integrity.

I think I have my day on inside out.

Craigslist want ad: “Great Pay to $0K Immediate.” Hey, they’re advertising my job!

Please think about what you say before you go splatting it all over the place like explosive diarrhea in an elevator at the Imperial Palace in Las Vegas.

I love fast computers the way some people love fast cars.

The only thing worse than being around one awkward person is being around more than one awkward person.

How I feel: like I was invited to a party only to be sent home upon arrival for wearing the wrong dress.

It is only once we are rendered useless that we may come to know how much we are, or are not, loved.

I don’t think I have a reading disorder; I think I have a reading disease.

I want to be a painting. I don’t mean I want to be painted. I mean I want to be a painting. I think it would be nice: everyone looking at me and no expectation that I do anything in return.

Dear Hands, How did you manage to change the word “glad” into “gonad” in the email you just sent? Love, Dana

If I came with a dislike button, a lot of people would push it.

Everything I am doing right now is in the spirit of questioning and exploration. Deal with it.

My defense: They were 67 percent off, so I got 5,900 percent more than I needed.

Make love not waste.

Life is a lottery ticket, and most of us are losers.

I am fluent in two languages: English and LOLcat.

I have tried my entire life to dispense with any sense of urgency.

Soon we won’t even speak. We will simply mediate one another’s lives.

Nothing draws attention like attention.

Everything that can be turned into a word can exist in language.

Blowing out the candle isn’t going to help if the house is already on fire.

Loving me is the first step toward hating me.

I no longer have friends; I have personal associates.

Spent all day figuring out the story of my trash.

If people came with a dislike button, I would push it a lot.

When I was young, I was alone but wanted to have friends. Now, I have friends but want to be alone.

I have Barry White and 53 cans of Coca-Cola on this snowed-in Thanksgiving. What more could I want?

Another dead varied thrush at my house. Fell out of the sky, faulty. A man, a witness, walked into my driveway, picked up the bird and brushed snow off its feathers. He turned the bird, examined its body. Satisfied, he gave it a heave-ho into the air. The thrush flew, feebly, in the shape of an upside-down “U” drawn by a drunk’s hand, then went, clean, into a drift of snow—a missile leaving a bird-shaped hole.

Last night, I misread a line from one of Elizabeth Colen’s poems as: “Here we take mattresses into our own hands.” I was all, “Wow. It’s like she really knows my family.”