She was not used to being cruel, but he had taught her how.

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.

I felt like an undeveloped photograph that he was printing, my image rising to the surface under his gaze.

What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?

she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?

In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show.

Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.