If I were blind I'd rather have another blind person leading me around because they know what I'm dealing with and they're experiencing the same things.

He's a really nice guy, if only I weren't me.

I couldn't help but think, This car is taking me to a mental hospital and my mother is treating it like open-mic night at a Greenwich Village café.

I loved most when his eyelashes twitched and he blinked, and suddenly happiness was there inside his eyes. Unmistakable. Like a single word printed on a clean white page.

Most everybody had made at least one bad, drunken decision in their lives. Called an ex at two in the morning. Or perhaps has a little too much to drink on a second date and wept inconsolably while revealing how simply damaged one was, while nonetheless retaining an uncommonly large capacity for love. That kind of thing was, while regrettable, at least comprehensible. But waking up with someone generationally inappropriate, like your grandfather's best buddy?

It terrified me to consider: What if, as a grown-up, I craved another body beside me as still as this one? What then?

You would be amazed by what you can give up, lose, or break, and yet still be a person who gets happy over brownies.