I saw the first episode of "The Walking Dead," and that's all I've seen. I thought it was good. I used to love zombies when I was little, but I don't like them the way I used to. I'm not knocking the show.

And Flock Rule Number Two is, Don't argue with Max or you'll live to regret it." I spun and stomped out to the clearing, turning back for one last jab at Dylan. "And by the way, you clearly DON'T know me better than Fang does. Do you see Fang arguing with me? No, you do not." Fang rolled his eyes.

I saw the first episode of "The Walking Dead," and that's all I've seen. I thought it was good. I used to love zombies when I was little, but I don't like them the way I used to. I'm not knocking the show.

I don't know about the rest of you who have little voices, but something about mine made me feel completely compelled to listen to it.

Why do things this beautiful make me want to cry?" I asked Michael as I leaned into him. It was an unguarded question, one I'd never have asked of Hugh. "I don't know," said Michael. "Maybe beauty, true beauty, is so overwhelming, it goes straight to our hearts. Maybe it makes us feel emotions that are locked away inside.

Oh, my God. It hit me like a tsunami then: how perfect he was for me, how he was everything I could possibly hope for, as a friend, boyfriend - maybe even more. He was it for me. There would be no more looking. I really, really loved him, with a whole new kind of love I'd never felt before, something that made every other kind of love I'd ever felt just seem washed out and wimpy in comparison. I loved him with every cell in my body, every thought in my head, every feather in my wings, every breath in my lungs. And air sacs.

I don't think of myself as a writer.