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Quote by Steven Magee

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Steven Magee

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“If we were on Friends, who do you think 'd be?" I wonder aloud. "I think you'd be Phoebe because you're quirky and creative," Chloe tells me. "Really? I think I'd be Monica because I'm crazy and neurotic," I say. "Jo, who do you think I am? Phoebe or Monica?" "Neither," Joni answers. "You're Ross." "What?!" Call me dramatic, but I've never been more offended in my life. "How am I Ross?" "Because you've had the same pathetic crush on the same blond ditz your entire life. And you like dinosaurs." "Everyone likes dinosaurs," I argue. Then I realize what else she's insinuating. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that Sam is Rachel?" Joni shrugs. "If the designer shoe fits." Oh my God.”

“How discouraging to watch your friends enjoying something you are too afraid to try. Do not underestimate such discouragement. It can be just as present in adulthood as you see friends taking on careers, travel, moves, and relationships that you would fear. Yet deep inside you also know you have the same or more talent, desire, and potential.”

“Are your friends TRULY your friends? If you didn’t have what you have, or do the things that you do for them, would you still have all of your so-called friends? Do they like you for YOU, or do they like what you can offer them? It’s time to be honest with yourself and face your truth. Fake friendships aren’t welcome here!”

“I have ‘like minds.’ You know, I’ve been fortunate to play in Los Angeles, where there are a lot of people like me. Actors. Musicians. Businessmen. Obsessives. People who feel like God put them on earth to do whatever it is that they do. Now, do we have time to build great relationships? Do we have time to build great friendships? No. Do we have time to socialize and to hang out aimlessly? No. Do we want to do that? No. We want to work. I enjoy working.”

“You look beautiful.” Lindsay giggles, checks Elody out in the rearview. “There are some bagels under your butt, beautiful.” “Mmm, butt bagels.” Elody reaches into the bag and pulls out a bagel, half squashed, then makes a big deal of taking an enormous bite out of it. “Tastes like Victoria’s Secret.” “Tastes like thong floss,” I say. “Tastes like crack,” Lindsay says. “Tastes like fart,” Elody says, and Lindsay spits coffee on the dashboard, and I start laughing and can’t stop, and all the way to school we’re thinking of flavors for butt bagels, and I’m thinking that this—my life, my friends—might be weird or screwy or imperfect or damaged or whatever, but it’s never seemed better to me.”