To write a story, I think you really have to open yourself up to the world.

Maybe the truth is, there's a little bit of loser in all of us. Being happy isn't having everything in your life be perfect. Maybe it's about stringing together all the little things.

She was supposed to be putting her life together right now, and all she could seem to do was throw grenades at it.

It's so much easier to have no expectations than to have big ones.

Women always seemed to bring the size they wished they were to the fitting room, rather than the size that would actually fit.

Healing wasn’t always the best thing. Sometimes a hole was better left open. Sometimes it healed too thick and too well and left separate pieces fused and incompetent. And it was harder to reopen after that.

Love made you admire funny things about a person, like how good she was at remembering to return her library books and at slicing cucumbers very thin. She was a veritable wonder at pulling a splinter out of her foot.