Everything I loved was taken away from me, and I did not die.

Sighing, she gave a brief nod. “I was supposed to win. I was supposed to finish you off. They never counted on you winning. And then you didn’t kill me. It was awful.” “You’re welcome,” I said, feeling fresh anger ignite. “I’ll try not to humiliate you by letting you live next time.” (Max II to Max)

Right now, America looks like a fatheaded, shortsighted, gas-guzzling arrogant blowhard to the rest of the world.

Fang, fang. I love you. I looooove you. I love you thiiiiiiiiiis much!

A lot of writers fall in love with their sentences or their construction of sentences, and sometimes that's great, but not everybody is Gabriel Garcia Marquez or James Joyce. A lot of people like to pretend that they are, and they wind up not giving people a good read or enlightening them.

When I wanted information, it was silent; when I didn't want to hear from it, it got chatty. It was alost as irritating as Fang.

It gets so tiring, this strong-picking-on-the-weak stuff. It was the story of my life -literally- and it seemed to be a big part of the outside world too. I was sick of it, sick of guys like these, stupid and bullying.