Everyone thinks I'm crazy, you know, because I can't tell them the truth; which is, that I'm driven crazy by all these thoughts, all these heads.

I was surprised to find out there was a direct line from my palm to my, my, hootchie.

Look, how come he showed up now? When you have other fairies in the woods? And does that sound crazy when you say it out loud, or what?

We could go back to your house. I can stay with you always. We can know each others bodies in every way, night after night. I could love you. I could work, you would not be poor. I would help you.

I'd been blindsided with the most painful knowledge: the first man to ever say he loved me had never loved me at all. His passion had been artificial. His pursuit of me had been choreographed.

Sometimes you just have to regret things and move on.

I don't write the kind of 'happily ever after' that romance readers enjoy.