Make me an offer, I’ll counter the shit out of it. We will handle this like the proud, beautiful black men we are.

Don’t tell me what to feel. All my fucking life, people have been telling me I do things wrong. I’m always the fucking asshole. I look around and I see everybody else is infinitely more fucked up than I am.

There’s not a woman that I’ve met that I haven’t fallen in love with, whether it was for 10 minutes or 10 years.

That fucker is the horniest man I’ve ever met! He’ll be pitching a tent on his deathbed.

We are not talking! We are not fucking! Nothing is happening!

I am not going to a fucking shrink! I’m a writer! I don’t give that shit away.

Life’s too short to dance with fat chicks.

You should live with someone who everyday reminds you how fucking lucky you are to be with them!

Rehab is for quitters.

“To my son, the writer. Something I never said too much: I love you. My father never said it much, either. And I thought I’d be different, but I guess I’m not. I tried, but somewhere along the line, you slip back into what you know, and I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry we haven’t talked in a while because I miss you. You’re a good kid and a funny kid. And you’re my only son.

I said I never read your books, but I lied. I read them all. I just didn’t know how to talk about them with you. I didn’t like the fathers in them. I know you writers take liberties, but I was afraid that maybe you didn’t take any at all. But the thing is boys become men, and men become husbands and fathers, and we do the best we can. You’re doing the best you can. You’ve done good. Your books will be in libraries long after we’re both gone, and this is important.

More important is how you treat your family. I wasn’t a perfect husband, but I loved your mother, and I’m glad we spent our lives together. And I’m here if you need me. That’s all I wanted to say.

Love, your old man.

P.S. I saw a preview of your movie the other night. It looks like a piece of shit, maybe you were right.”