She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.

I waited patiently - years - for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we'd say, Yeah, he's a Cool Guy.

There are a million talented writers who are unpublished only because they stop writing when it gets hard.

People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips.

I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

I assumed everything bad in the world could happen, because everything bad in the world already did happen.

Everytime people said I was pretty, I thought of everything ugly swarming beneath my clothes.