Even if it’s a dumb story, telling it changes people just the slightest little bit, just as living the story changes me. An infinitesimal change. And that infinetisimal change ripples outward —ever smaller but everlasting. I will get forgotten, but the stories will last. And so we all matter —maybe less than a lot, but always more than none.

dating you would be like a series of unnecessary root canals interspersed with occasional makeout sessions.

We'd failed, maybe, but some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.

Her primary reason for living and my primary reason for living were awfully entangled.

I just want to fly under the radar, because when you start to make yourself into a big deal, that's when you get shot down.

Mom sobbed something into Dad's chest that I wish I hadn't heard, and that I hope she never finds out that I did hear. She said, "I won't be a mom anymore." It gutted me pretty badly.

I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.