Dwight, you ignorant slut.

Do I need to be liked? Absolutely not. I like to be liked. I enjoy being liked. I have to be liked. But it’s not like, this compulsive need to be liked, like my need to be praised.

I love inside jokes. I’d love to be a part of one someday.

Guess what, I have flaws. What are they? Oh, I don’t know. I sing in the shower. Sometimes I spend too much time volunteering. Occasionally I’ll hit somebody with my car. So sue me… no, don’t sue me. That is the opposite of the point that I’m trying to make.

The worst thing about prison was the Dementors.

I’m not superstitious… but I’m a little stitious.

I understand nothing.

Sometimes I’ll start a sentence and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way. Like an improv conversation.

I knew exactly what to do. But in a much more real sense, I had no idea what to do.

May your hats fly as high as your dreams.

Saved a life. My own. Am I a hero? I really can’t say, but yes.

Good managers don’t fire. They hire and inspire.

This morning I saw a YouTube video with a puppy riding a motorcycle. So my bar for stunning is pretty high.

I’m dead inside.

I am running away from my responsibilities. And it feels good.

Should have burned this place down when I had a chance.

You know what they say? Fool me once, strike one but fool me twice, strike three.

I don’t hate it. I just don’t like it at all. And it’s terrible.

I’m an early bird and I’m a night owl. So I’m wise, and I have worms.

I am Beyoncé, always.

Would I rather be feared or loved? Easy. Both. I want people to be afraid of how much they love me.