I haven't had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone's dead and my root beer's gone.

She can’t help it. She loves the con. I tell myself I’m not like her, but I have to admit I love it too.

Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

You said you were allowed to lose it,' some part of her reminded herself. 'Not yet, not yet.

Philip Sharpe was a soldier in God's army," says the minister. "Now he marches with the angels.

If the enemy of my enemy is my friend, then surely you should be friend to my friend.

The moment she was cursed, I lost her. Once it wears off- soon- she will be embarrassed to remember things that she said, things she did, things like this. No matter how solid she feels in my arms, she is made of smoke.