What is the point of having free will if one cannot occasionally spit in the eye of destiny?

We are not going to die." Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?" No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.

I'm so pretty, it's hard for me to think of myself as intelligent.

Hospital waits are bad ones. The fact that they happen to pretty much all of us, sooner or later, doesn't make them any less hideous.

Wait. You work for me?" "I prefer to think of it as managing your incompetence.

There are things you can't walk away from. Not if you want to live with yourself afterward.

You're dead, son. Cheer is contraindicated.