Paper Towns – John Green
“IT IS NOT MY FAULT THAT MY PARENTS
OWN THE WORLD’S LARGEST COLLECTION OF BLACK SANTAS.”
You know how in prison-escape movies
they put bundled-up clothes under the blankets to make it look like there’s a person in there?” I nodded.
“Yeah, well, Mom put a goddamned baby monitor in my room so she could hear my sleep-breathing
all night. So I just had to pay Ruthie five bucks to sleep in my room, and then I put bundled-up clothes
in her room.”
“What’s up, Q?” asked Gus.
Oh, we’re just scattering some dead fish about town, breaking some windows, photographing naked
guys, hanging out in skyscraper lobbies at three-fifteen in the morning, that kind of thing.
“Everything’s uglier close up,”
“This guy sounds like an alcoholic Kermit the Frog with throat cancer.”
“Sometimes,” Radar said to
me, “he’s so retarded that he becomes kind of brilliant.”
“I’d like to see
how the cop responds to a black man wearing a Confederate T-shirt over a black dress.”