Stop Saying No Offense,” I Said, “when

I’m Not A Romantic, I’m A Half-wit. Only Stupid People Would Think I’m Smart. I’m Not Something Anyone Should Know. I’m A Lunatic Wandering Around For Scraps, I’m Like Every Single Miserable Moron I’ve Scorned And Pretended I Didn’t Recognize. I’m All Of Them, Every Last Ugly Thing In A Bad Last-minute Costume. I’m Not Different, Not At All, Not Different From Any Other Speck Of A Thing. I’m A Blemished Blemish, A Ruined Ruin, A Stained Wreck So Failed I Can’t See What I Used To Be.

I Often Can't Remember Which Scenes Are And Aren't In The Final Product, Because I Saw So Many Different Versions Of The Lemony Snicket That I Forget Which Ended Up On The Cutting-room Floor.

For Every Teenager I Know, Having A Phone Is A Mixed Blessing, Because Your Parents Can Press A Button And Figure Out Where You Are.

Miracles Can Happen, Even To Those Who Are Small, Flammable, And Dressed All In Black.

Tell Me What It Is, Or Prepare To Eat Harpoon.