It's much easier to wear your pain on the outside.

Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high.

It's much easier to wear your pain on the outside.

Once you're in charge of your job, your house, your children, getting the food on the table, doing all of this, all of the time, it'd be nice for someone else to be in charge for a bit maybe.

God forbid that women have fantasies.

I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can't love me

I've set the bar quite high in terms of storytelling.