Gemma was so determined for me to deal with my PTSD, but I thought I was doing pretty well with it. We were friends now. I had my incontinence under control

I was busy perusing the suicide notes and waiting for Belvedere's water to finish its treatment when I heard a thud from Cookie's office. Then a mousy squeak. The a throaty moan.

"Cookie," I said, wiggling my fingers at Belvedere to get him acquainted to with our strange ways, "are you masturbating?"

"No, I got a paper cut."

Oh, I didn't see that coming.

But give up my business? The same business I'd built from the ground up with my own two hands and designer Louis Vuittons? The same business for which I'd sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears? Well, maybe not sweat and tears, but there was blood. Lots of blood. Give it up? Not likely. Besides, what else would I do? I totally should've gone to Hogwarts when I had the chance.

A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it.
It was fun while it lasted.

The funny thing about GPS was it didn’t always send you in the right direction.
I knew that if I took a right and took Twelfth instead, I’d get there faster, so I turned right. Ozzy did not approve.
“Wut the foock?”
Did he just say the F-word?
“Ya not even foocking listening.”

“Ha! This is great,” I said to the dead naked guy. He ignored me. Ozzy was so entertaining

My calculations - allowing for a 12 percent margin of error, based on the radius of the corresponding confidence interval and the surgeon general's warning - concluded that they probably didn't stay behind for the tacos.