A little blood never bothers me.

As he closed the door he said over his shoulder, "Because you're a good lass." A heavy sigh. "And I'm no' a good man.

I'd turn and run but I'm anchored by two dudes that could hold the Titanic during a tsunami.

I contemplate the notion that maybe regrets are a process of accumulation of time, as unavoidable as a closet full of clothes and more bags of them in the attic. Is accumulated baggage what makes people get old? If so, they need to clean out their fecking attics, send the stuff to consignment shops and remember how to walk around naked like kids, little bellies sticking out, always ready for a good laugh.

There was no lifeboat here in these deep, killing waters, not even a lighthouse, marking the way back to shore with its soft amber promise. There was only the storm of Barrons and the one I seemed to be, and if there were dark shapes moving in the waters beneath my feet that I should probably take a good hard look at and possibly reconsider trying to swim here, I didn’t care.

You can't go forward if you're looking backward. You run into walls that way.

Holy water at my wrists and behind my ears; my version of Eau de Don'tbiteme