Lorelai: [on the phone] What do you look like. Do you look the same?
Rory: Hold on. My nose ring is itching.
Lorelai: Don't kid. I'm mad and needy, and I ended up going out to dinner alone with my parents, who bickered the whole time about which Beatle is alive and which is dead.
Rory: So, where'd they land?
Lorelai: John and Keith are dead. Paul and Bingo are still kicking.

Rory: [on the phone] I could have sworn I told you.
Lorelai: I just reread every e-mail you sent in the past ten days. No sickness mention, but you did share these gems: "Hey, what up? Is it freezing there, too? [chuckles] Ice." And, "Whew. Pooped." Then you added one of those obnoxious hieroglyphics that I can never read that are supposed to indicate you're laughing or smiling or frowning or vomiting. I don't know what.
Rory: That's a typo. I don't do cutesy symbols.
Lorelai: You're not even using verbs. That's not a relationship. Relationships need verbs.

Lorelai: Man, I love e-mail. Every day Rory and I write each other multiple times. It's great.
Luke: You enjoy typing to people more than talking to them?
Lorelai: Wrong perspective. E-mail is a return to the romantic days of letter writing. It's pure Dickens.
Luke: Why Dickens?
Lorelai: It's just when I picture letter writing, I picture Charles Dickens.
Luke: Charles Dickens wrote more letters than other people?
Lorelai: No, it's just I can easily picture him in his study with his dog and his pipe and his fancy feathered pen, writing "Cheerio, old bean. Have a cup of tea. How's Big Ben? How's the Tower of London? Sister Suffragette? Tuppence a bag."
Luke: Sounds like an idiot.