Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.

Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones.

She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

But words are more powerful than anything.

I need a boy who thinks with his big head, not his little one. Since they do not exist, I have fashioned my own.

It is hope, not despair, that undoes us all.