Hey, I'm going to Super Dog for a quick bite and to pass along a message from a dead guy to his girlfriend. You should come with me." "I can't go with you." "Is it because of my questionable morals?" "No, it's because it's three o'clock in the afternoon and I have to pick up Amber from school." "Oh, right. So the morals thing doesn't bother you?

She still wasn't convinced. "So, if you were a guy, would you be into me?" "Hon, if I were a guy, I'd be gay." "Yeah, me, too.

Still, this whole grim reaper thing should have come with a manual. Or a diagram of some kind. A flowchart would have been nice.

Maybe I needed sensitivity training. I once signed up for an anger management class, but the instructor pissed me off.

For one week, all I could think about was drinking margaritas--well, that and running my tongue along Reyes's teeth--but I didn't have salt--or Reyes's teeth. I'd also lacked the energy to leave my apartment to get some--or the desire to stoop low enough to beg Reyes to let me lick his teeth after what he did--so I could only wish for a margarita. And dream of Reyes's teeth. I'd secretly hoped a margarita would magically appear in my hand, but that would mean I would have to put down the remote, and God knew that was not going to happen.

I had yet to be a mother, but I would have thought it difficult to forget something it took thirty-seven hours of excruciating pain to push out from between my legs ~Charley Davidson

When fighting clowns, always go for the juggler.