He had a certain naive charm, but no muscle.
I’ll have a glass of milk. In a dirty glass!
He stole the milk money at school. He’s a thief in my book.
Good night, book thief.
So, you play the cello, Dorota. That’s nice. And who’s your favorite composer? Chopin? Really? Well, you’ll have to learn to play his cello sonata, won’t you?
The funny thing is that Steve Rendazo secretly wants me. Jocks like him always want freaky girls. Girls with horn-rimmed glasses and vegan footwear and Goth makeup. Girls who play the cello and wear Converse All-Stars and want to be children’s librarians when they grow up. Oh yeah, jocks eat that shit up.
This one time, at band camp…
Dear Diary, my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count.
I would ask you if you could remain emotionally detached, but that’s not your problem, is it, Bond?
I’d just as soon kiss a Wookiee!
That can be arranged. 
They say if you resort to violence, then you’ve already lost.
The first man to raise a fist is the man who’s run out of ideas.
Eat floor. High fiber.
I’m not going to kill you. I want you to do me a favor. I want you to tell all your friends about me.
Don’t you ever talk about my friends. You don’t know any of my friends. You don’t look at any of my friends. And you certainly wouldn’t condescend to speak to any of my friends. So you just stick to the things you know: shopping, nail polish, your father’s BMW, and your poor, rich drunk mother in the Caribbean.
My family is something you don’t talk about, Cole Younger!
My mother? Let me tell you about my mother…
Hush, mama! It’s for charity! Widows and orphans. We need more of them.
You think he’s gone? He’s not gone. That’s the whole point! He’s never gone!