What was so miraculous about a relationship that was based more on my gratitude than on mutual self respect?

I hated roses. I hated them for being so trite, so clichéd, a default, all-purpose flower that said I love you, I'm sorry, and get well soon. Give me peonies and tulips, orchids or gardenia. Those were flowers with character.

Teachers wondered why I didn't speak up more in class. Why would I when I knew how precarious words could be, how betraying they were, how vulnerable they made you?

Hey, if it's a good philosophy, it works. Death is imminent. Live every day like it's your last.

There is real comfort in being quiet.

Silence, too, can be torture.

You know, there are easier ways to meet a guy than to run him over.