Every book for me is an exorcism in some way or another, working through my feelings at the time.

When the going gets tough, the tough go drinking.

Hello, Halberstam," Owen says, walking by. Hello, Owen," I say, admiring the way he's styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it... devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his hair-care products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guesses after mulling over the possibilities being Ten-X.

When we sat down to eat I took inventory of the people in the room, and the remnants of my good mood evaporated when I realized how very little I had in common with them – the career dads, the responsible and diligent moms – and I was soon filled with dread and loneliness. I locked in on the smug feeling of superiority that married couples give off and that permeated the air – the shared assumptions, the sweet and contented apathy, it all lingered everywhere – despite the absence in the room of anyone single at which to aim this.

The Smiths are singing and someone says "Turn that gay angst music off.

I am gripped by an existential panic.

Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.