Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It's hard enough to communicate when you're telling the truth.

Since the moment I laid eyes on Jericho Barrons, I wanted him. I wanted him to do things to me that pink and clueless MacKayla Lane was shocked and appalled and ... okay, yeah, well, utterly fascinated to find herself thinking about.

He'd surely been spawned by some cataclysmic event of nature, not born.

Now you know how I justify my addictions—if I can pay less for it than I would at Wal-Mart, I get to have it.

That part of his body was simply uncontrollable, apparently functioning in accordance to a single law of nature: She existed--he got a hard-on.

I was in Cancun, Mexico, sitting in a disappearing-edge swimming pool, on a bar stool that was actually under the water, watching palm trees sway in a sultry breeze against the unmistakable aqua splendor of the Caribbean Sea; drinking coconut, lime, and tequila from a scooped-out pineapple, with salt spray of breaking surf and sun kissing my skin. Translation: I'd died and gone to heaven.

I lock eyes with my reflection and don’t look away. The day you look away you start to lose yourself. I’m never going to lose myself. You are what you are. Deal with it or change.