I've spent enough time behind a bar that I've formed a few opinions about what people wear and what it says about them. Guys who wear black from head to toe fall into two categories: they want to be trouble, or they are trouble.

As his other hand began to slip around her waist, his body brushed against hers, and there was no mistaking the thick, hard ridge grazing her jean-clad bottom. Heavens, did that thing never subside? The rest of him might be mortal, but his immortal erection certainly didn't scan to have gotten the memo.

You believe in God? Dude. Only God could have created physics.

Oh, drop the act, Tinkerbell, and get rid of my problem. Then we’ll talk.

He knows what I'm thinking. Always. We're connected. The atoms between us ferry messages back and forth.

Strength wasn‘t about being able to do everything alone. Strength was knowing when to ask for help and not being too proud to do it.

Time heals. No, it doesn't. At best, time is the great leveler, sweeping us all into coffins. We find ways to distract ourselves from the pain. Time is neither scalpel nor bandage. It is indifferent. Scar tissue is not a good thing. It is merely the wound's other face.