No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?

She's a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps.

[Lennie meets Joe - he works out that she was named after John Lennon] I nod. "Mom was a hippie." This is northern Northern California after all - the final frontier of freakerdom. Just in the eleventh grade we have a girl named Electricity, a guy named Magic Bus, and countless flowers: Tulip, Begonia, and Poppy - all parent-given-on-the-birth-certificate names. Tulip is a two-ton bruiser of a guy who would be the star of out football team if we were the kind of school that has optional morning meditation in the gym

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?

We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.