They assume she was once gorgeously beautiful. Because now she looks so—bad.

Her voice makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her breath makes me think of her breasts.

In all probability the Human Genome Project will, someday, find that I carry some recessive gene for optimism, because despite all my best efforts I still can't scrape together even a couple days of hopelessness. Future scientists will call it the Pollyanna Syndrome, and if forced to guess, I'd say that mine has been a way-long case history of chasing rainbows.

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer. We're all of us a million bits put together the right way.

History is filled with brilliant people who wanted to fix things and just made them worse.

Maybe this is why Misty loved him. Loved you. Because you believed in her so much more than she did. You expected more from her than she did from herself.

Everybody looks a little crazy if you're looking close enough and if you can't look that close, then you don't really love them.