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.

Give me romance. Flash. Give me denial.

He was the kind of boy any young girl should date while she's still able to recover.

It's easy to attack and destroy an act of creation. It's a lot more difficult to perform one.

What if reality is nothing but some disease?

Nothing feels as awful as pouring your heart out to some talk therapist, then realizing this so-called professional is actually vastly stupid and you've just professed your most secret secrets to some goon who's wearing one brown sock and one blue sock.

At some point, your memories, your stories, your adventures, will be the only things you'll have left.