He bombarded me with words, of all things, apparently clueless to the fact that the predawn hours rendered me incapable of coherent thought.

You called me at four thirty-four....I hate four thirty-four. I think four thirty-four should be banned and replaced with something more reasonable, like, say, nine twelve.

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.

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.

Love was not only blind, it often careened into Blithering Idiotsville as well.

Writing is transcendental. It is a form of expression, a form of art that you can take anywhere. That you can do anywhere. It poses the deepest questions in the universe. It generates emotion. It elicits empathy, promotes learning, creates an intellect you simply cannot get from any other medium. For me, it is air.

guys have feelings too. But like...who cares? -Inspirational poster