I suck at all this supernatural stuff. But I fry a mean chicken. Oh, good. I hate it when the nice ones get fried.

I love children, but I don't think I can eat a whole one.- Bumper sticker

My fore-parts, as you so ineloquently put it, have names.” I pointed to my right breast. “This is Danger.” Then my left. “And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly.” After a long pause in which he took the time to blink several times, he asked, “You named your breasts?” I turned my back to him with a shrug. “I named my ovaries, too, but they don’t get out as much.

I may not have any skeletons in my closet, but I do have a little box of souls in my sock drawer. —T-SHIRT

Oh, my god!” I said to Reyes, my eyes radiating accusations at him. “She took your picture? Just what kind of game are you playing? You’re under arrest, mister.” His mouth tilted and a dimple emerged on one cheek as I took his wrist and threw him against a wall. Or, well, urged him toward it. I held him against the cool wood with one hand and frisked him with the other.

Dead people I could handle. They were usually beyond hysteria. This was the people-left behind part. The hard part.

There is a great need for a sarcasm font.