That is, to me at least, one of the most helpful and useful things books do for us: They are generous enough to allow us to choose what matters to us.

But I could always tell in her eyes if she got really pissed at me, and her eyes were still pretty smiley

Me: "If you want me to be a teenager, don't send me to Support Group. Buy me a fake ID so I can go to clubs, drink vodka, and take pot." Mom: "You don't take pot, for starters." Me: "See, that's the kind of thing I'd know if you got me a fake ID.

Something about me has always liked the drama and inconvience of bad weather. The worse the better, really.

Reading it the night before, I'd wondered if it would be like that for me-if in one moment, I would finally understand her, know her, and understand the role I'd played in her dying. But I wasn't convinced enlightenment struck like lightining.

What's the point in being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable? How very odd, to believe God gave you life, and yet not think that life asks more of you than watching TV.

I would always love Alaska Young, my crooked neighbor, with all my crooked heart.