I was feeling safe. Not the kind of safe where you know there are still bad things howling outside the door waiting to get in. No, it was the kind of safe where you sink down in your bed at the end of the day and know you can go to sleep and everything is going to be the same tomorrow.

I don't even have moderately big breasticles. They just look like - well, nevermind what they look like. At least they stay strapped down when I worm into a sports bra.

Christophe, with the careful tone of an adult telling a kid not to pet the nice foaming-rabid pooch.

He stared at his hot chocolate like it held the secret to the universe.

I don't believe in getting clothes that just look pretty or that'll fall apart—they have to stand up to a lot of abuse.

No problem, Goth Boy. First one's free.

To my everlasting relief, he’d also stopped with the starch a few years back . The military made him big on spray starch, but I point-blank refused to touch the stuff after a while. He finally gave up doing it himself, and I manfully restrained myself from pointing out that the world didn’t explode when he did. And they say maturity is just for adults.