Nick: I'm using magnetic words to break through my writer's block, and it's not working. I've already folded all my shirts and masturbated six times, and I'm running out of things to do. I'm just in a real bind. You see, The Pepperwood Chronicles sold over 30 copies, Jess.
Jess: So, what, we're complaining about good things now?
Nick: It's just, my audience is gonna be clamoring for a sequel, and I can't leave those stevedores, those-those tugboat workers, those lighthouse keepers empty-handed.
Jess: You think that your audience is entirely made of, like...
Nick: Blue-collar nautical workers on the coastline of Maine. I don't think that, Jess, I know that.

Nick: Don't mean to interrupt, I just hear you're the best teacher of adults?
Jess: Oh, no.
Nick: I wonder if there's room for one more?
Jess: No!
Nick: How you guys doing? I'm Julius Pepperwood.
Jess: Not now, okay?
Nick: I'm an ex-cop, ex-Marine. I'm here to learn how to write short fiction.
Jess: Oh, okay, Julius, just... take a seat and, um, keep small.
Nick: I'm from Chicago. Thin-crust pizza? No, thank you. I'm from Chicago.

Robby: I know you're capable of messing up.
Jess: Really? Because you won't even admit that the gym thing is my fault. Your lawyer wants you to sue me, and frankly, I agree with her. So sue me.
Robby: I am not gonna sue you.
Jess: Then how can I ever trust you?
Robby: That doesn't make any sense.
Jess: You know what? If you're not gonna sue me, then get out of here.
Robby: Fine. But I will tell you this: you will not be hearing from my lawyer.

Cece: Okay, I'm sorry, the cubicle will be gone soon, but this is a real make-or-break moment for me. Either I'll look back at this as my "Steve Jobs in the garage" phase, or that misguided month where I tried to be a manager at the dining room table.
Schmidt: You are absolutely Jobs. And I'm Woz sitting next to you the whole time in a... slightly lower chair. And speaking of jobs, by the way, you guys need to be like Winston and start getting jobs for Donovan.
Nick: Don't you basically work on ads for a living, Schmidt?
Schmidt: Yeah, well, my current account is for a menopause pill that eliminates night sweats.
Reagan: Oh, you're repping EstroFuel?
Schmidt: Yes. Chest bump.

Jess: So in honor of this occasion, we all got you gifts for your home office. You may know it by its former name, the dining room table.
Schmidt: Me first. A cubicle, swinging balls, an outgoing mailbox, a cartoon that is very derogatory towards Mondays.
Cece: So thoughtful, babe.
Reagan: Will that mailbox be functional?
Schmidt: If it wasn't, it would just be a box, wouldn't it?
Robby: So can I buy a stamp for this letter?
Schmidt: It's not a post office, man.