He looked okay. No, to be honest. He looked a lot better than okay. He looked...fine. Fine, as in get the Chiffons over here to sing a chorus.

I'm not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided he doesn't kill me, its foolproof.

He said you were on the scene when that Laurel Canyon homicide went down.” “I’m lucky that way,” I said. “So are you two square again?” I halted, mid-ripping open the cookies, and stared at him. “Well, he’s pretty square,” I said. “I’m just a rectangular guy.” With latent triangular tendencies.

I didn't approve of murder on general principles. Not even of people who seemed to go around begging for it.

Not as intolerable as being dead, in my opinion, but I'm very fond of me. I would miss me a lot.

This is how God made me. You are how God made you. All God's chillun are made how God made 'em. You think God made a mistake, take it up with Him.

You know that thing about Death Be Not Proud? Well, Fear Be Not Proud either. And Fear Be Not Elegant. What Fear be is stumbling, bumbling flight, crashing through brush, slip-sliding on pine needles, sloshing through puddles that are always deeper than you expect.