(Man, I wish life had emoticons, you know? So that when your dad pisses you off you could like click a mental button or something and just show him one of those rolleyes. That would rock) Anyway.

[She] was made up of skin and bones and hate and crazy, and hate and crazy don't weigh anything.

A river of images and thoughts and feelings, dirtied and polluted so that no one could drink from it without gagging.

It just means that if someone hates you, they still have feelings for you. If they really didn't care about you, they'd just forget about you. They wouldn't even waste the time hating you.

Are you stalking me, Mr. Fulton?" The idea both amused and horrified Jazz.

Jazz hadn't given her many details of exactly what life in the Dent house had been like, but he'd told her enough that she knew it wasn't hearts and flowers. Well, except for the occasional heart cut from a chest. And the kind of flowers you send to funerals.

You don't swing at any pitch. You swing at the ones you can hit.