She couldn't take her eyes off the boxers. Mostly, she had a view of the back, but he turned halfway when he looked over. She commanded herself not to look at the front flap, which, of course, was exactly what she honed in on. He spit and put his mouth under the tap to get some water. All while just wearing underwear. All while she just stared at the crucial spot of the Action Pants.

Go see old virgins! Now ask a strange boy out, you shy, Retarded thing!

Prefects. I had learned this one. Student council types, but with superpowers. They who must be obeyed.

And if we get caught, I will claim I made you go. At gunpoint. I am American. People will assume I'm armed.

Well, what now? You have no job. I have no job. Wanna play Jenga?

When I worked in theater, I was always writing things on Post-it Notes and sticking them on screens or desks. Twitter has given me a way of continuing to post those notes, only a lot of other people see them, too.

I've heard people on panels say, 'You must have a Web site. You need to tweet. Repeat the title of your book constantly,' and I just want to say, 'Shut up. Everything you're saying is wrong.' People will know instantly if your only motivation for tweeting is to sell books.