My rule is: the second you find yourself doing something you hate, quit doing it.

Something about her suggested that her leisure activities included wrestling large woodland animals and banging bricks together.

Money is for doing things, my love. Don't sit on it like a hen sits on an egg. It doesn't hatch. I should know. I've made enough of it.

I sleep better knowing that a naked cork-eater is not sneaking around at night, stealing my underwear.

It took about three minutes for the unassuming Waffle House to become the new offices of the law firm of Amber, Amber, Amber, and Madison. They set up camp in a clump of booths in the corner opposite from us. A few of them gave me an "oh, good, you are still alive" nod, but for the most part, they had no interest in anyone else.

The essay I had to read was called, "An Essay on Criticism" by Alexander Pope. The first challenge was that the essay was, in fact, a very long poem in "heroic couplets". If something is called an essay, it should be an essay.

It could have been like a fairy tale. But fairy tales aren't real. Things don't work like that. There's a price for everything.