I often cried when I got angry; I hated that. Crying just made you look weak, no matter what triggered it.

He looked like he'd just seen the Ghost of You Better Shut Your Mouth.

Following Simon's adventures is like being the pinball in an especially antic game, but it's well worth the wear and tear.

I felt like a car that had only been operated by one driver… a car its new prospective buyer was determined to take to the Daytona 500.

Could I tell them I was sorry their loved one was dead, when he’d tried to kill me? There was no rule of etiquette for this; even my grandmother would have been stymied.

I'm supposed to be a christian, but most days I don't feel like I can even presume to say that about myself any longer. I have a lot of mad left over. When I can't sleep, I think about the other people who didn't care how much pain and trouble they caused me. And I think about how good I'd feel if they died.

I stroked Eric's hair, tucking some behind his ear. His eyes on mine were intent, and I knew he was waiting for me to speak. "I wish," I said, "I could save orgasms in a jar for when i need them, because I think I had a few extra." Eric's eyes widened, and all of a sudden he roared with laughter. (Dead to the World)