These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.

Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

Really, just looking around, you feel a twinge of pity for the poor souls who succeeded in getting past the Pearly Gates. One can't help but picture the lackluster VIP lounge in Heaven, a kind of nonalcoholic ice-cream social starring Harriet Beecher Stowe and Mahatma Gandhi. Hardly anyone's idea of a "with-it" social register.

What you see at fight club is a generation of men raised by women.

No matter what else you came up against, if you could smile and laugh while a monkey did you with chestnuts in a dank concrete basement while somebody took pictures, well, any other situation would be a piece of cake

Optimism is the first symptom that any disease is fatal.

Everybody's trying to make every minute of the present last forever. Preserve every second.