Boo, I think I no longer believe in monsters as faces in the floor or feral infants or vampires or whatever. I think at seventeen now I believe the only real monsters might be the type of liar where there's simply no way to tell. The ones who give nothing away.

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.

Why not? Why not?Why not not, then, if the best reasoning you can contrive is why not?

It's all very confusing. I think I'm very honest and candid, but I'm also proud of how honest and candid I am -- so where does that put me?

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece electrostatic / And everywhere Mary went, the lights became erratic.

It did what all ads are supposed to do: create an anxiety relievable by purchase.

Dostoevski informs everybody; or he ought to.