I'm Chip Martin, he announced in a deep voice, the voice of a radio deejay. Before I could respond, he added, I'd shake your hand, but I think you should hold on damn tight to that towel till you can...
I'll write you an epilogue, I will, I will. Better than any shit that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese. He doesn't even remember writing the book. I can write ten times the story that guy...
I'd rather wonder than get answers I couldn't live with.
I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow.
I tore open the closet door and began feverishly sorting through the shirts piled on the floor in the vain hope that inside that pile there might be some wondrously perfect shirt down there, a nice an...
I said nothing—I hadn’t known Marya, and anyway, listening quietly was my general social strategy
I mean, I am pretty fabulous. Am I not?''You're a pillar of fabulosity in the community,' I tell him.
I hated talking, and I hated listening to everyone else stumble on their words so they wouldn't sound dumb, and I hated how it was all just a game of trying to figure out what the teacher wanted to he...
I hated hurting him. Most of the time, I could forget about it, but the inexorable truth is this: They might be glad to have me around, but I was the alpha and the omega of my parents' suffering.
I hadn’t read a real series like that since I was a kid, and it was exciting to live again in an infinite fiction.
I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy? (This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Su...
I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can't due to deadness, and then I leaned forward, my forehead against the back of Takumi's hea...
I feel like, like, how you matter is defined by the things that matter to you. You matter as much as the things that matter to you.
I don’t like to throw the L-wordaround; it’s too good and rare a feeling to cheapen with overuse.
I don't know whether it was the general anxiety of being on a date (albeit one with my would-be date sitting fivepeople away from me) or the specific anxiety of having the Beast stare in my direction,...
I didn’t need you, you idiot. I picked you. And then you picked me back.
I didn't know whether to trust Alaska, and I'd certainly had enough of her unpredictability - cold one day, sweet the next; irresistibly flirty one moment, resistibly obnoxious the next. I preferred t...
I didn't know if I should hug him, and he didn't seem to know if he should hug me, so we just sort of stood there not touching, which to be honest is my preferred form of greeting.
I couldn't be mad at him for even a moment, and only now that I loved a grenade did I understand the foolishness of trying to save others from my own impending fragmentation...
I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well—but never quite perfectly, you know?