In America, the distance between wanting something and having it delivered to your living room is not terribly great.

If my mother hadn't tried to sell me chicken Kiev cutlets for $1.40 after I graduated from college, maybe I would've been the lawyer she wanted me to be.

Michigan, with its delicious American name. How lucky one must be to live there.

I write almost entirely in bed or on a couch with my feet up on the coffee table. I feel most creative when Im looking out the window, and my bed and couch have nice views of the New York skyline.

I am born hungry. Ravenous. I want to eat the world, and I can never be satiated.

America should treasure its rare, true original voices and Mark Leyner is one of them. So treasure him already, you bastards!

Summer is a Latvian chicken. We make foolish choices. We think we’re young again. We run with outstretched arms toward an object of love and it pecks us and pecks us until we’re standing there snot-nosed and teary in the middle of Astor Place and the sun sets fire to our Penguin shirts and all that is left to do is go to our air-conditioned homes and ponder the cruelty of our finest season.