I like French fries," I say. I like French fries? I sound like a slow child in a made-for-TV movie.

My stomach lurched, an appetizer before the full portion of heartache I had a feeling was going to be served at some point soon.

These days, you’ve gotta milk a dollar out of every dime.

This is myself, baby. All of my selves. I own each and every one of them. I know who I'm pretending to be and who I am." The look he gives me is withering. "Do you?

So are you moving on now? Is that what brought you to the grand metropolis of Valladolid?” “No. The wind just blew me here.” “What? Like a plastic bag?” “I prefer to think of myself as a ship. Like a sailboat.

I know what I did to you was so wrong, but at the time it also felt so necessary to my survival. I don't know if those two things can both be true, but that's how it was.

I’ve been feeling something else. Like I’m about to be sucked into something powerful and painful.