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.

I wish my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.

What can I say about life? Do I praise it for letting you live, or damn it for allowing the rest?

A womans mistakes are different from a girls

I almost said, you're not broken, you're just going through something. But i couldn't. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn't worked.

Women always put men first. That's how everything got so screwed up.

A book's flaws make it less predictable.