Friends don't let friends get killed by serial killers

Hey, boss. Where are you?” she asked. “I just picked up something to eat. What about professional belly dancers?” “Um, I don’t know, maybe with horseradish.

Dude,” I said, leaning over the desk, “I’m about as psychic as a carrot.

Life is not about finding yourself. It's mostly about chocolate. T-Shirt

That's my entire weekend. I had plans" "A Vampire Dairies marathon is not plans." She looked at me like I lost my mind. "Have you even seen the Salvatore brothers? Holy mother of gingersnaps.

I suck at all this supernatural stuff. But I fry a mean chicken. Oh, good. I hate it when the nice ones get fried.

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.