You cannot hide from the world. It will find you. It always does. And now it has found me. My split second of immortality is over. All that's left now is the end, which is all any of us ever has.

For every hour a mother gets to herself, a father will demand five times that amount for drinking with friends and acting like an immature dipshit.

I know there's no heaven. I know it all turns to nothingness. But I fear there will be some remnant of me left within that void. Left conscious by some random fluke. Something that will scream out for this. That one speck of my soul will still exist and be left trapped and wanting. For you. For the light. For anything.

I occasionally get glimpses, but I have to reprioritize, because that's how it naturally progresses - things like family, responsibilities, and your job all take precedent.

When a teacher is paying extra attention to your child, you believe that it's because you raised such an exceptional kid, one that stands out head and shoulders above the rest of her booger-eating friends.

I wanted to write a book that maybe had the potential to go beyond the Deadspin and KSK [Kissing Suzy Kolber] readership.

On the Internet, Spencer Hall at Everyday Should Be Saturday is the best writer in the universe. He's very funny. They're jokes about college football, but they come from somebody who's clearly smarter than the rest of us; it's always fun to get your jokes from someone who's a genius.