Sometimes I think that if it were possible to tell a story often enough to make the hurt ease up, to make the words slide down my arms and away from me like water, I would tell that story a thousand times.

I think about the hurt that stories cannot ease, not with a thousand tellings.

To ward off a feeling of failure, she joked that she could wallpaper her bathroom with rejection slips, which she chose not to see as messages to stop, but rather as tickets to the game.

I wonder this: If you take a woman and push her to the edge, how will she behave?

But how do you ever know that you know a person?

There are more experiences in life than you’d think for which there are no words.

That I have no right to be jealous is irrelevant. It is a human passion: the sick, white underbelly of love.